Haar

I’m not much of a beach person ,

(The sunshine’s not very “me”) ,

But I can rarely resist the Siren call,

Of a grey, storm-tossed sea.

Buffetings by salt-scented wind ,

are gifts of adversity ,

that graciously unearths me from ,

my current complacency.

“But, it’s warm right here!”

(Is my Inner Comfort’s decree).

“But, you feel number here”

(Beckons the haar, ever-so delicately).

If the breath of these waves were ,

To take me into captivity ,

To be swept up and away would,

Be an unexpected liberty.

I’m not much of a beach person ,

(The sunshine’s not very me) ,

But I hope I can risk being swept off by ,

The breath of a stormy sea.