Tempest

A quiet descends o’er the breadth of the land,
And paused are all creatures, sensing danger at hand,
Then swiftly away, to their havens secure,
As skies quickly darken, with blackness the core.

The breeze reasserts, though now blows from the west,
And the waves of the sea turn white on their crest;
Aye, the wind grows to gale, and encroaches the coast;
A Herald of Evils, of some Infernal Host.

The seas boil in Chaos, breakers pound exposed shore,
Fishing boats flounder, to cast nets no more;
Their crews and their captains, sucked down to the deep,
While new widows lament and swaddled babes weep.

Inland cuts the storm, with a swathe o’er the downs,
Lifting tiles from roofs in exposed coastal towns;
And the saplings bow low, in due pious respect,
A frown from tall elms as they feel the effect.

Yea, the poplar and beech, growing loftily high,
For their arrogant thrusts towards the dawn’s sky
Are surely now marked, and certain to die.
Who questions fickle Nature, her Wherefore and Why?
Not I. Oh no Lord, not I. Not I.