I remember, at the age of four,
a violent storm that blew outside
like nothing else upon this earth –
when I was taken near high tide
to feel that force of Nature’s birth.
Within the shelter of the land
the trees would sway and whip and sigh,
below the dark and dreary sky.
Before the beach a bank stood high,
with us behind, within its lee;
we climbed to face the deafening roar
and fought to stand upon the shore,
and saw the savage sea.
Far offshore great mountains boomed,
crashing in heaping boiling whites,
spray streaks pulling through the air –
bright in the green and purple light.
The salty blast blew through my hair,
blew through my clothes like paper, soaking
my face, my eyes, and stinging my nose.
I shuddered, cold from scalp to toes,
in awe as Nature’s violence rose.
And here I am in silent air,
nothing moving in this room,
trapped in a timeless, heavy gloom.
But I remember being there,
and once again I long to be
a shaking figure fixed before
a mighty storm upon the sea
with huge waves crashing on the shore.
And I will see that storm arrive,
my feelings swelling with its rise,
a fire burning in my eyes,
insignificant beneath tremendous skies,
the Atlantic blast beating through me,
a smile behind my wild eyed stare,
knowing that I should be there –
a part of Nature, with Nature in me,
alive in that moment, with the soul of the sea.