Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LIFE ON THE LAKES: STORM, by ELIZABETH SEWELL HILL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LIFE ON THE LAKES: STORM, by                    
First Line: A chill creeps over the waters wide
Last Line: The hurt call sounds four!
Subject(s): Lightning; Rain; Storms; Weather; Lightning Rods


A chill creeps over the waters wide
As the night grows thick.
A roar swells down on the mist-bound tide
And ice flakes flick
At the pane as the red lure flits outside.

The fresh-trimmed wick
Peers out from the long decks battered sides
As the first waves lick
At the ragged keel, storm-blenched, wave-dyed.

The throbs come quick
As the storm swings down with mighty stride;
The ice glares thick
On gunwhale and railing, on cover and side,
On snug-lashed rick
Out on deck, up on top, piling high, spreading wide,
While the lashed spray pricks,
Blowing in from the deeps where the white caps ride,
And bare hands stick
Where, white tho' the drifted frosts deride,
The metals click.

Straining out—beaten back—tacking fresh—drifting wide—
She falters fixed,
Driving back on the bar while the foam sheets slide;
But the blurred rudder kicks
A safe channel back from the bar's wounded side
While the calls come quick
As the crew bend, braced, to the lines close-tied,
And numb hands pick
At ice-buried knots ere bare decks gleam wide
At the sailor trick,
And the gunwale lifts over the breaking tide
While the spent spray slicks
Down the treacherous way where the lookout guides.
Lo! A far star pricks,
And new snow flurries in pomp and pride
Where the light reels sick.

Forging out thro' the lift of the inner tide
With its deafening roar,
Pushing up round the Point, easing off, straining wide,
Where the great lamp scores;
"Coming!" "Coming!" "Coming!" Hark! The hills deride
Up the lonely shore.

Hold! The old boat reels as the trough yawns wide.
From the hull's great core,
Crash! Crash! Cra-ash! And the seams start wide
While the spent shaft gores
Thro' the splintering ribs of the battered old side
And ragged floods pour
Splashing up thro' the gloom where the piled cargo hides.
The fast-flooded floor
Flushes back thro' the firelight where the old engine rides
With its open-flung door.
"Coming, coming, coming, coming!" The hurt cry rings wide,
The hurt call sounds four!





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