Armageddon in a bowl
Thunder gallops, waters roll
Countless wolves howl in the sky
Blow down houses, growl and cry
Matt grey sky like old stale paint
Sobs like son of slaughtered saint
Weather wails, laments the day
Soaks the cliffs in tears of spray
Sky and sea both boil in rage
Tragedy on sand strewn stage
Scrawl a picture with the storm
Carve coast into madman form
Bitter chill bites scarce seen boat
Struggling to stay afloat
Placid place this never was
Peace, serene, unknown to us
Yet still we flock to headland’s edge
Gosling spirits here will fledge
Grizzled veteran surfer sorts
Breach the brine upon their boards
We stand rigid, bodies glow
Defiant ‘gainst the hammer blow
Gripping Gore-tex, clutching cloth
Cowering from the furious froth
Backs bent crooked, faces skinned
By razor rain and whip lash wind

The guitarist with his well-rehearsed finger
Positions dips his toes into the river and sighs:
He’s singing a long forgotten chorus line.
He taps a melody on the shoulder, coaxes
Out its voice, weaves it into his own.
His studded leather fingers stroke the beast, tame it
He caresses its neck and tightens its stretched heartstrings.

His song is rivulets of water running
Down the thin red line between a wrist and a razor blade.
His verse is a poorly tied knot that dumps
Its cargo onto nothing more than soft carpet.
His refrain is the advancement of freight train brake technology.
His harmonies are the phantom branch that catches
One’s shirt as one passes by the bridge.

A Hero with a song worth singing, but he chooses
To remain hidden beneath the willow where the sign reads:
“Danger, Deep Water.”