Written by Edward Tiesse
A subtropical night
on the palm-treed grounds
of a beachside hotel
lying in a canopied bed
between wakefulness and sleep
I see lightning-created shadows
then an angry cannon of thunder.
The sound is
distant
like the marching of soldiers
moving steadily forward.
The raindrops
at first
are large individual
footprints
each distinct and unprecedented
but soon
they increase in number and volume
their uniqueness lost
their percussion blends
with the wind
the orchestra of the storm.
I cannot sleep but
my wife still slumbers
drugged by the white noise of
the sea storm.
I envy her oblivion.
We wake later and walk the beach
encountering
bits of white plastic
a broken blue ballpoint pen
a curved piece of bamboo
an empty water bottle
the casualties
of the half-remembered
storm.
featured in our spring 2018 issue
