The Gods’ Fists
The harsh needles of winter rain
that have battered my window, my heart
my sheltering roof
watered the salted stones that line the shore
these stones now shine like diamonds
as the Moon slips through.
Waves rise, spraying with fierce clatter
bits of broken glass, old nets, plastic bags and buoys
against the implacable cliff, dark and looming
and then a sound
a whimpering
a lonely cry:
I am sea
your birth place
I am choking
even as winter rides the turbulent wave
please, an ancient Orca named Nanny rises
please, a pod of porpoises follows our ship
please, a new drilling rig lifts the Franklin wreck
while the lakes, the great lakes and the birds that did not migrate
first freeze then melt.
The birds cry
and the gods appear
(they rarely appear alone)
and these tears flow
through rivers that weep,
the lakes that leak
but the sea does not whimper
beware
the Gods’ fists rise.
by Lutia Lausane, copyright Just Peachy Productions, 15 January 2016
