r2vyln3rdioj14u-rld0ska where mountains meet the sea: The Storm

The Storm

The sea, boiling porridge, all muddy and white,
all streaked in grey and bloodily red,
beaded and veined with magenta and puce,
never a respite, never a truce,
colours of terror, razors of fright,
tatters and trails of the dying and dead. . .
The wind starts up again, blasting its best,
all sorts of trouble, straight out of the west,
falling around us, elements’ rubble.
Blind to the smart of it
spindrift and rain
constant assault
thundering onslaught
whipcracks of lightning
rain horizontal and vertical both
and diagonal always, cutting across,
this way and that, flashes of jagged-edge,
zigzags of cutlass-slash, slicing the dark,
sudden, the bright score
on the black board of night’s door -
All the way through –
At the edge of what’s life, all the crew -

Alasdair Mac Mhaighstir Alasdair (Alexander MacDonald), excerpted from The Birlinn of Clanranald  and trans.by Alan Riach

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