Biting coldness grabs me with rain on this winter night - <br />where I walk along the promenade <br />and the wind is alive <br />and grabs on to me and grabs me again <br />like a impudent child <br />and bleak-white a lightning bolt crashes down <br />and I smell the explosion of that intimacy <br />while the red face of the moon bursts out of the sea, <br />disappears and are again present, <br />like a swimming champion <br />that breaks through the water with breaststroke <br />and for moments I stand to watch the water <br />which is black, wild and stormy <br />like a very angry woman <br />and I hear the moaning of the wind, <br />while the stars peer at me through the wind tossed clouds <br />with strange earnest faces.<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-winter-imagism/
