The Master Poem by Michael Mason

I stood on the road at first
watching the great waves
fall over each other in a foam.
The grey tormented sky racing
across a windy void no hope of reprieve,
relentless in fact, getting blacker
by the minute.
The waves rising higher,
touching the moody clouds
with their white tips,
offering no remorse.
The gale chases the sea
along an empire of sludgy
froth, like thunder.
The grey shadow of a haunted
ship lies distant on the horizon,
a pale yellow light blinks its way
across the haze, a white streak
of lightening lights up the
cold grey sky, booming its
cry along the white capped sea,
rolling on and on,
turning all in its path.
The heavy curls of the torrent
wiping the sand bed clean.
Seaweed clogging the outstretched
beach, the shoals
dribbling noisily on the run.
A rock on the waters edge
stands waiting for the blast.
The sea turns white on impact
sending a huge wall of spray up
in the air, without a care,
and tumbles back into the raging
swell. No time for rest
as another great crash sends the
wave high over the waiting rock,
turning it white.
Silvery bubbles settle on the granite
shore for all to see.
For all hear.
For all to fear.