Shack By The Sea Poem by David Johnson

The grass shivers on the hill.
The wind whips along its ridged spine
kissing each blade bending it back
like a dame at the ball.
Raven's dot the sky swept up like the turning of the tide.
I've seen this from a window in a little old shack
by a large old sea.
The wind outside billows through the cracks bending trusses
like a great beast in pain.
When the wind rolls in from the hills to shake my home
the ghouls at my door circle, peering in at a nervous me
With an uneasy pen.
The walls begin to shrink and tremble in an attempts
to cough me out the the mouth of the door.
The wind calls my name hiding it's face with an invisible push.
Then, it's calm.
The candle is a hot mess pooled at my feet.
The recovery takes place.
Thoughts will be numbered.
Then I will make my escape.