The shipping forecast reports severe storms

Waves ricochet off rocks along the shore

Out to sea, towering walls of water

Overwhelm the sturdiest of vessels

Which, fight as they might against the currents,

Will concede defeat any second now.

A buoy stays afloat, just, but is itself

Perilously close to going under.

Lightning strikes once, twice, maybe a third time

Or at least that’s the scene I conjure up

While sitting hunched over a Medira

Before it sinks down my oesophagus.

I can almost taste the Atlantic chill.

A deep exhalation makes me think

Of relentless, unforgiving whirlwinds

That merchants somehow tamed, to deliver

The currencies of tobacco and rum

For the sustenance of lesser beings.

It’s clever, this pathetic fallacy

It always seems to manifest itself

When braving the elements proves too much.