SHE IS THE GHOST OF GENERATIONS

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In from the East,

Mother Russia bore her,

North Sea nourishes her,

Unforgiving,

Razor sharp tongue,

Cuts to the quick,

Castrates the rationale,

She has feasted here before.

 

She cloaks herself in a blizzard,

Particles of ice,

Shattered glass,

Sophistication of sorts,

Black, grey, white blur,

Waves unchecked now,

This way and that,

Screams,

Banshee screams,

For the sake of it,

They amuse her.

She is unpredictable this one,

Always was.

 

Grown men call out for their mothers,

Others pray to the Illusion.

Predictable yet necessary.

 

Matters not,

She will determine,

Who lives,

And who does not.

 

Where she settles,

Once dry land,

Gulls scatter,

Trees cannot cope,

Crack and snap,

Lost limbs.

 

She is the ghost of generations.

 

She takes her leave,

All is calm.

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