Outside my window a grey sea is roiling under a sky that looks like boiled newspaper - the message isn’t good. The truth is the message hasn’t been good for some time now.
I am reminded of a poem by the American poet Robert Frost.
Once by the Pacific
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the light was spoken.
I know it’s pointless, but I look up, scan the clouds, search for some harbinger of good news. And I wait, wait for the sun to strip away the clouds, one by one like Salomé, to dance naked across the sky.
Come on!, I call out. But not today.
With nothing other to do I make my way down to the pool where the sea had done it’s mightiest against the shore, strewing boulders and chunks of wall thither and yon as though they mere were puff balls.
I am motivated by the hope -false no doubt- that good deeds will bring good things later on. And so I push, and tug and throw rocks back from where the wind and sea had flung them. Take that, I say, perfectly aware how puny my efforts really are. Finally, enough is cleared so that others can get around easily, find a place to lie down, bath in the sun - once she decides to unveil herself.
Al and Heidie