ΣΚΙΡΩΝ

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.