Glen Wilson

She is waiting to catch the crest,
a thrall to nature, or at least

to that part that overwhelms
with its double-edged rush,

and from a distance I watch
the sea break the storm wall,

see her pushed back until she
is claimed by water, her scarf

left snagged like seaweed
on splintered boardwalk,

near a broken phone, pictures
beyond viewing, drenched

by a want of experience.
Despite the warnings,

being told the storm is coming
is never the same as its touch.