Squall Poem by Ronnie Smith

On my rock
at nine hundred feet,
I see the grey veil
pulled silently across the water
toward me.

The grass begins to wave
and the trees start hissing
and the sheep huddle tightly
behind the drystane, knowing,
as darkness captures everything.

Its violence sweeps unopposed
up the open hillside,
full in the face
blasting, drenching, cleansing,
rushing over the moor and away.

My rock and I are liquidised,
rinsed by God
from his Atlantic reservoir.
And the sun and a rainbow enter
stage west, precisely on Q.