Poetry

Biting coldness grabs me with rain on this winter night -
where I walk along the promenade
and the wind is alive
and grabs on to me and grabs me again
like a impudent child
and bleak-white a lightning bolt crashes down
and I smell the explosion of that intimacy
while the red face of the moon bursts out of the sea,
disappears and are again present,
like a swimming champion
that breaks through the water with breaststroke
and for moments I stand to watch the water
which is black, wild and stormy
like a very angry woman
and I hear the moaning of the wind,
while the stars peer at me through the wind tossed clouds
with strange earnest faces.