The weather is fickle

The weather is fickle

What once was amiable

Is now at war

There is a rage

A reckless disregard

Ripping up trees

In mindless retribution.

Tortured branches

Whipping to and fro

With gusto.

Rain falls like tracer fire

I am caught in a ricochet

Broken shells bounce

On the tide line

Like cats on a hot plate.

Venus in blue jeans

Runs for cover

Fronds wave

Enthusiastically

There is an inevitability

In a turned ankle.

The Pharaohs have

Long since gone

But with mascara

Running down her cheeks

She is

A sodden Cleopatra.

I could be Anthony

Not on your life

Said he

There is no future in

The monarchy.

I am not Cecil B. DeMille

And this is not

The Valley of the Kings

No matter how much

Sand is blown

Into my face.