Godtide

It was horrible. Horrible yet still
So unmissable. What stark, even ill
Tide which so formerly lay sedate ‘neath
Smoke-grey skies was whipped so angrily to wreath
The projecting pier in mountains of fine,
Snowy broth. The troughs of an endless line
Of tenacious waves descended so near
The sandy floor, and then the combined fear
I felt with the other witnesses came
To be realised as massive became
Gargantuan. The briny scraps of light
Which were dislodged from mother-swell with flight
All juddering and plummeting lined dark
Skies and framed dark painted cliffs which braced the stark-
Seeming backdrop. The lip curled and fell, dug
Itself into the base of the pier’s smug
Face with an invisible intent to
Dislocate its vast foundations. And through
The thundering composition the stone
Boomed defiance and forced the tides alone
To retreat. But the tides would not comply.
Salty fingers reached out high in the sky
And endeavoured to ensnare the lighthouse
Which stood watching from its gallant post. “Douse
Me not!” it seemed to cry, and the moist, cold
Fingers of what abyssal creat’ would bold
Set its wrath upon the Earth abated.
The tempest subsided. Yet we waited for more.

End.