An Angry Hour

It is an angry hour. Ocean spume strafes sentinel rocks as storm winds shred the day. Tamarisk cowers before a ruthless gale, timid in its delicate beauty. Shingle shivers, chattering loudly with each icy wave that assaults the shore; above, furious clouds battle for attention in a swirl of indecision, weeping with anger for peace lost. However, anger is but a fleeting wound in an eternal promise of perfection, healed by rainbows and the coming of light. Ah. . .all is well. 

The Hands of Time

Hold my hand my darling, it trembles a little now. It is no longer pretty, yet you hold it so lovingly; your touch more comfortable now, gentle and light, less possessive, more cherishing. Our hands have shorter lifelines but longer memories. They have wiped away tears of sadness and tears of joy. They have caressed the new-born and pointed the path , right from wrong. With their partners, they have applauded endeavour and achievement in equal measure; thanked the Lord for his blessings and prayed for his mercy. But right now my darling, just hold my hand, then I shall be holding the whole world in my palm.