and post notes and photos about your poem like Victor Buhagiar.
Near the cliff's edge he stood
poised and composed. Wind swept dust
whirling salt mingling thyme,
tickling his half-clogged nose.
gliding, soaring, diving,
harbingers of electric storms.
A mistral wind blew cold and cruel
black clouds formed low, forbidding.
Lazy lizards scuttled for refuge
Sparrows hid in lowly carobs
Or flew into the stately pines.
The wind spoke suddenly.
Gusts whispering dread.
An urge, a whisper, an invitation
echoing sirens of old:
"Be free, fly, liberate yourself."
Below, the sea in turmoil,
no fishing boats in sight.
No one but he dared face the storm,
the storm he feared
was inside his tattered soul,
a sea of torment.
The birds and creatures of the wild
found a haven, but he had none,
no solutions to the inner storm,
except to dive and join the sirens,
in the perilous seas below.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2019