It seems that the eye of the storm
Is her eye:
An eye of the softest brown,
Framed with the green of distant meadows,
Set in ivory as bright as the flash of a laugh,
And wreathed with lashes of purple heather.
Bruised clouds of blasted iron,
The weighted potlid to the furnace,
Hang overhead and all around us
Trembling with dark rumours;
Machinations of malice,
Of the gulf and of the gyre.
Yet when the heavens tear apart,
Haemorrhaging lightning,
When the raindrops spark upon our skin
Like the hammer on the anvil,
And when the very air
Writhes and thrashes against the fabric of things,
I’m safe at the centre of the cyclone,
Held afloat in her arms
Like the mast of some sinking ship.
And the storm is but a game,
Which stirs me with the strangest thrill
As it plays beyond our reach.
Eye of the Storm
Written by
in Poetry
