Last Rites Poem by Andrew Shiston

Dark majestic, rising high in the heavens
Black clouds of bulging rain
Photo flash, a backdrop
Lightning, lighting a golde halo
Gods with black faces
With puffed cheeks, mouths pursed
As the storm gathers force
The wind screams through the rigging
Ripping sails into pennants
Masts of finest redwood trees
Bend in final submission
As arms array they feel the sea
The proud fugure-head leaps high
As though in contest with the sea
A final dive as the bows break off
And with a groan the masts break free
In slow reverse, bows high
She slips below the foaming seas
A final resting place below
With just torrential rain
The only morning cry.