Poem without a title.

Beauty are the clouds that deceive

From wind and rain a slight reprieve

In the distance a soft mist

Signs that intense weather persists.


Sands whip across my shoulder

Wind whistles louder

Gulls, cormorants, puffins, gannets

Ride white horses.


Fishermen scurry for cover

Shelter until the storm blows over

Four seasons in one

Watch the mercury plummet.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~