The Nor’wester announces
its presence with that itch in the dank
domed skull-cave, the crawling sinuses,
the prickling of your nape as the wind
ruffles the tawny pelt of the flat,
bringing the minor devils,
translating nerve and sinew into steel strings
that it strums discordantly.
This is hardly strange to the Cities of the Plain
(reminding them that they
are on the razor edge of the universe)
to see the light turn yellow and bruised
for the berserker herald of amok ions
lashing flowerbeds into submission.
Cloud bunches into a bridge
of bone and mashed potato, to bring
down the Four Horseman.
Götterdämmerung, Ragnarøkr, Ἀποκάλυψις
and mundane things look slightly askew.
King of migraine, listlessness
and Heraclitean flux.
And suddenly the atmospheric engine flips,
Bringing in cold, wet Notos from the south.
The uncanny switches off as it has
a billion times before, but still seems unexpected.