The Atlantic howls
Wet and windy
Boughs and branches bending.

The sea a stew
Of white foam
Against the black abyss

Deep in the moving bowels of the ocean
Is a calling.
A restless voice like reeds ripping the wind
Beckoning you to the foreshore

Torn from rest, you are pulled
As the wind places its magnet on the buttons of your nightshirt
Tossing your coat off the hook to clothe you

The tide pulls your feet
Step by quickening step
Towards the sand

Only now can you
Stop to gaze at the clouds
Scudding across the moon
Like flounder across the seabed.

All rages around you
And yet, silence descends
Like the ringing of tinnitus in your ears
And you are told what it is you are called to hear...