The sea is crashing into the sky,
unfurling mountains after the calm.
The spray floods us out of sight
as we hold on.
The warnings were there,
the usual ones: pine cones, seaweed,
the dog trying to translate
the charge building in his ear,
which we heard only as barks
the day before the storm.
If you've any comment on his poem, Gregory Leadbetter would be pleased to hear from you.