‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’ – Robert Burns
The poet writes and looks at the telephone, his heart still thudding from the ramifications of her phone call. He recalls her angry words of never wanting to see him again and his equally vehement response. He regrets it now and wonders if she is also going through the same agony. The phone rings softly now, almost musical. He knows who is on the line. He smiles, tears his note and leaves to attend the call.
Sea boils with wrath..
each resident reciprocates
waiting for lasting peace
This was written for Haibun Thinking.