Monsoon Turbulence

Waves leap over his roof again. Coconut sentinels lose their heads. His breakwater breaks, but he won’t flee to the monsoon refugee camp. People and the press stand amid the lightning from cameras. Their rapture is with the waves rising high to touch the rain clouds. They’re on a spree in the sea spray. They’re far-sighted, for they can’t see this fisherman sitting like a crow- pheasant in the remains of his yard. He’s no pension, but only tension. Yet he’ll neither mutter nor murmur. Now he curls as a prawn on a wet sack inside his half-eaten hut. If the sea doesn’t swallow him tonight, he’ll wake up early, pick up his net, and set out to catch sardine, mackerel, pink perch, tuna and the like, for them. Winning of Poetry Nook Weekly Contest First published in The Literary Hatchet