Storm At Low Tide

Ranges of clouds conceal other cloudscapes;
the noise of thunder is like the noise of
history. Thickening, moving closer,
the rain is a sift of chalk and charcoal;
the river, dwindled by summer, still holds
in suspension gold pins, strands of daylight.
Bubbles from crabs form spools of wordless speech.
Along the mud-flat, a dog rollicks, bathers
lounge in sinking deck chairs. An iron wheel
is dragged to a pit near tethered boats.
The storm breaks, I turn home — the rain my skin,
the pools I wade through my sandalled feet.
Mist shrouds the road, my body. From the water
of sea and sky and river, this poem.