Sea Sprowl

The storm's fingers reach for the coast where we live.  The amount of energy that is building is beyond palpable.  Standing on the ocean's bank, salted spray caught in a driving wind lashes rock, sand and bracken.  In a few short hours that will change to so much more.  Lingering long is not an option.

 

A deep guttural moan created by breaking wave and ragged wind upon this rugged shoreline sounds like a wind-roarer whirled by the hand of an ancient god. Leaves are torn from slender branch and twisted twig that belonged to the weather beaten trees I stand amongst for companionship and dwindling shelter.

 Energy like this reminds me what it means to be a practitioner of the old ways. I never question the push and pull of a storm's pulse. I've learned to be prepared, as best one can.

Upon returning home, I hear the wail of the wind trying to find a 'way in'. It's voice, perhpas that of a lonely soul who once knew shelter such as mine.

A cup of tea, cat in lap, and candles at the ready are my only plans just now.