Come where on this last shore of broken teeth
All spume and fury of snorting battle-horses,
Wild waves and trees are lashing their drenched hair
Like treacherous women come to grief,
In grey, uproarious war, charge after charge
Of hurtling cavalry shuddering the shore,
Deafening the birdless marge!
Find the storm’s swirling core, and understand
That mad, old fisherman dancing on his barge,
Yelling and poling as it wheels around
Its hollow boasts of cataclysmic sound.
Study the grey storm streak his hair, and prize
More than those hoarse cauldrons heaven has upended
The salt delight of wrinkled eyes,
And his strange sorrow when all storms are ended.
Everyone here at LJ is gearing up for Irene, and what the WSJ reports will likely be a “total subway shutdown.” What better time for Derek Walcott?