The still morning

It thundered unkind across the island
like a tithe taken in the dark
for seeking sanctuary.

The force was roaring on beauty -
why blow on stone already smooth,
scatter water with water?

Yet the dawn was an empty lung,
a casual sun strolled across the sky
the stray cats stretched into the light,
Unnerved.

Your turn, the towers of palm said,
rustle-less;
to leave your questions with the storm,
the thoughts that bite each other.

A white dove flew from a terracotta roof,
the sky a fire blue 
neither were thinking about rain.

LJ Ireton, 2024