A Storm in Izmir

 The sky behind the bluff catches fire and burns
Down the clouds, spreads to the peaks
Above the bay; the wind changes and turns
The waves into dolphins racing to break
The headland toward the open sea.
The squall breaks over us, not from sky or hill,
But out of black crashing ocean spilled
Over sprits and masts of the fishing fleet,
Water grapples mooring posts and clambers
Paylines, spuming into the streets.
The dwindling wick of sun is pinched,
Fury reels keening on the pitchblende wind that roils
Among the palms, fronds flicking verdant fire,
Savage swords in the caverned dark.

Izmir, 1963