Should my mourning sky
not include you in it,
should your heavy sighs
not be for me and intimate,
it would be like the rain
inside its smoking haze of tears.
Should you not be there on wilder days
lending strong arms and shoulders
to shield me from my cloudy fears,
the leather would be so cold
and the chill air of night, bold.
Love, she scolds and yearns
because the bed is empty still,
despite I lay with hope
whilst here without you.
Her raging torrents beat me down,
and savage waves engulf
such as I am. At its meekest,
the crest of each tumult still carries me
as I witness a softening of her fiery face,
all of anguish and sad torment.
Night time brings lamenting grace
and equal cooling of her fervent wish.
I have embraced all storms in varied
measure, and this night which is nought but calm.
I am battle hardened but not weary,
and I will rest just enough to brace
myself for when love comes again –
bring on the storm.
Evaporated, she ran and hid,
I am a worthy opponent –
not even a slender emergence
of guise or flimsy skirt from which to beguile
and lavish on me the timid blows
she threatened to wreak.
All have subsided and been blown
off course. The storm, once afeared,
was ne’er more than
a consumption of air, the very air
I breathe and devour with such voracity –
and she cannot bare it;
hair swirling in distaste,
the uneasy swallow of bitter aftertaste,
that is me, and in my grief, I am the storm –
beware the calm.