Temperate

Do I reflect the island of my birth
Do seas of reserve bind my own extremes
Restrain my storms of wrath and frivolous mirth
Becalm with blue and grey and dappled green?

No. Under my stillness, my features shut
Betrayal starves my broken heart with cold
Loving scorches my heart with brands so hot
Anger storms grumble, rolling round my soul

My land’s not calm: its sun burns, its seas race
And passion lies neath the placidness of my face.

SNV31814

Copyright 2016 by Paula Harmon. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission