Damp air filled with the tang of salt.
The light is grey, dead, heavy with storm.
Wind rising, beating the water,
Driving spindrift to shore.
Gull feathers & seal bones
Litter the strand-line,
Tangled with leathery weeds
Stinking with rot and mussels.
I feel the wave before I see it;
A huge pressure on my aura
Rearing like a stallion
Maddened by lust and fear.
The sound, a hundred trains
Condensed into one deafening roar
When I see it, it’s too late to run.
A mountain of water a mile high
breaks over my head
And I drown, crushed first
To a handful of pebbles
Rolling along the beach.
I wrote this poem over a year ago; the feeling had begun building back then and it became almost unendurable. You can interpret this however you like but for me, world events are at the root of it.