The storm raged on the horizon, black clouds,
dark as his soul, gathered themselves to strike
their vengeance upon the shore. He steeled himself,
waiting the inevitable tirade, the onrush of
cataclysmic power that was headed his way.
His storm was brewing.
It was coming for him and him alone.
As he dug his unshod sodden feet into the damp,
he remembered when it was not always like this,
he recalled better times, smiled at the storm and welcomed it,
raising his hands to the skies, he embraced it. As it
lashed down upon him, his freedom was secure.
His release was final, This was his storm
He had waited this moment for weeks, steeling
himself for the right time, the right conditions,
and now, he would give himself fully to the
storms that engulfed his life. This beach was his
sacrificial altar, his last final farewell, his act of attrition
for one moment of forgetfulness, one error in a
life of calamity. It was now or never.
This was his storm.
© Fergus Martin