Hell Fires
Infernal coals from the floors
of Davy Jones’s Locker
heat up the waters inch by inch,
feet by feet, yards by yards,
fathoms by fathoms, sea to surface,
surface to the eyes of the sun,
lying still in the soft
summer currents, luxuriating
in the bosom of the Mother Ocean,
turning their bellies toward the sun,
red hot fires still shooting from their mouths,
but then their fiery faces
turned cold and lifeless,
their spears and battle axes are
melted down to ashes and the
tempo of their pulse is slowly crawling
inch by inch until there is close to none,
just a feeble smile from their petrified lips,
their white flags waving in their shaky hands,
yielding themselves to the heat of the sun
for the takeover of the new devil taking
over the tired old devil,
the alliance of the two forces
offering themselves to dance with the
swirling winds to the music from
the infernal chamber orchestra from
the Isle of the Dead, from the
drifting mausoleums in the teeth of the sun
with torches that kick up the waters
and turn them into turbulent waves,
then into violent hurricanes
that wreak havoc upon the ships and
the shores and the hinterland.
Mother Nature is our
lady of many moods,
our lady of power and beauty,
of resolution but yet vulnerable,
of trust but yet deceitful,
of honor but yet scorned,
saint and friend and foe and devil’s ally,
but yet the same since the
spirit moved across the waters
for the birth of our Planet Earth.
How else could she be?
This is about Hurricane Beryl.
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