I opened the windows wide to let the squall,

the hurricane in waiting, rage through the house with

typical October Winds fashion, the bluster of a false

premised argument, the storm that fells trees

but cannot whip the coat from a cold woman

as she digs in deep with fingernails more lustful

than when she lingers in bed in lingerie long drawn

over her body.

 

The squall rages, it fires like a coughing dragon,

not with splutter, but with the wet hose

that feeds a Tsunami and the curtains rattle

and the small silver wind chime my wife bought

back from holiday once, rings out across the land

and only heard to those who stop and listen.

 

I want the hurricane to come, the squall is beautiful

but it remains a muted fawn, a characterless fuse

which never really blows hard enough to tear

the pigs away, the whirlwind of choice,

the tornado that brings change and revolution

siphoned out and the call of a natural phenomenon

laying waste to the top heavy burden dressed in finery,

the woman who lingers in thundercloud lingerie, coatless, smiles

at the thought, her flat stomach and long legs

enough to quell the temper of the tempest

and the rage of the hurricane that dwells within .

Ian D. Hall 2015