Glen Wilson
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She is waiting to catch the crest,
a thrall to nature, or at least
to that part that overwhelms
with its double-edged rush,
and from a distance I watch
the sea break the storm wall,
see her pushed back until she
is claimed by water, her scarf
left snagged like seaweed
on splintered boardwalk,
near a broken phone, pictures
beyond viewing, drenched
by a want of experience.
Despite the warnings,
being told the storm is coming
is never the same as its touch.