storm's brewing

A storm’s brewing
Small fingers of water spouts
come out of the grey and roiling clouds.
Even the smidgeon of sunset trying to break through
cannot deceive me.  I will not be
bamboozled into thinking I am safe. 

A flash of lightning
and a count of five, then
right above me a thunder clap,
shaking me to the bones,
pressing like a depth charge
so that I can barely exhale. 

In another storm,
when crowds had been dispatched,
while screaming with fear
a boatload of men swore they saw a ghost
walking on the water,
exhorting, “Do not be afraid.”

Come on!  Fear is the normal, human response
to life that has gone suddenly out of control.
What would you have me do?
Walk out on the water, too?
Yes!  That’s it precisely!  Do it now!
But don’t look down.  Don’t look back.

Faulty faith precedes my fall
below the water and the waves.
Such little faith.  So much doubt.
But perfect faith is not required.
I ask what you want of me.
Tell me to come to you 

on rough and choppy seas,
exposed and unprotected
frail in the act of exposure.
If you do this
in all the sudden storms of life
you will be safe.

Liz McFadzean

Joy is supposed to slither through the cracks of your imperfect life.   Donna Ashworth