The trees lurch forwards and upwards,
Like a pom-pom on American Independence Day,
Swinging to the song of its mistress;
A powerful beauty in its sway.
And what a dance this lover gives,
Thrusting her force without invitation or persuasion,
Playing her soprano of pan-pipes
To lead her frolic of pervasion.
The rain attempts to curb her lure,
But she sweeps it up with her vexation and with a laugh
Like a rattle of trench-time bullets,
She casts them out of her writhing path.
With outstretched hands she flicks the waves
Into fits of flurried punches, crashing their jealousy
Against the rocks (she fondles and strokes).
She laughs, cheered with their idiocy,
For she knows her time is dwindling.
She is the invisible enchantress, the femme-fatale
Of wistful lovers, and as she fades
They lie and wait - for return she shall.