The Rain Will Come

Wet pigment leaks upon waves.
A soft honeycomb illusion,
this invigorating air tinged with salt
and astir with tumescent clouds all swirling to fulfilment.
The sun goes down like a metallurgic metaphor,
a great cocktail coloured egg yolk into blue alcohol,
an amaranth bloom of night overlaying the eternal stars
where evanescing light dissipates the gloom
and settles darkness upon the brow of hill and curling crest
reaching toward twilight devotion
and the gentle grace of Eurynome.
Thunder rumbles distantly over the horizon’s curve
shadowed by looming heights
and the quiet whisper of a drowsy turn
murmurs with each sweeping surge of froth
stealing over sand and coarsely weathered rock.
The rain will come at last.