Done for

Sometimes the weather knows me better than I know myself
and on goes the music, the dishwasher, the hoover, the microwave, the tap
to drown out the sound of it's howl.
Before here I knew when the curtains should be drawn
and would avoid the eye of it,
hide from it,
now it fumbles around my home every few weeks with an uncaring air whilst I
ignore it's there and it thows further dances when I can't -
not that, I think, if this strong storm truly knew how it moved me
it would subject me to it
but what can I say
"I don't want to see you,"
to a thing too beautiful not to watch,
to a thing too interesting not to quizzically dream of,
to a thing too screwed up it makes me feel less alone?
I should, that ocean storm is a kindred spirit blown from the North
until I am pushed further and further South, until I fall from the edge of a Cornish headland and swim in the riptide, until it's done, or I am.