The ocean surges through the darkness

Crashing her waves upon the land.

Hissing in retreat only to build again.

A myriad of twinkling eyes gaze downward

Bemused by the fury of her age-old sister.

The ancient moon retires before the break of dawn.

Cold air bites the tenderness of my cheeks

The lifeless beachfront whistles a mournful tune.

All have taken shelter from the night chill.

Trance-like I watch in anticipation

For what, I do not know.

Surreal suspended animation prevails.

The sky wakens and illuminates my world

With a celestial light.

Colours replace monochrome voids.

Sparkling greens dance with white horses

Tranquillity subdues the turmoil.

The lure of hope for the new day.

It washes all remnants of times past

Along with the footsteps of my existence.

The mist of her salty breath kisses my lips.

 She grooms herself for the deluge of impending humanity

The extravagance of modernization degrades her ageless beauty.

Commercialism mocks her virtue.

Neon, her garish jewellery

No wish to witness the assault.

I turn away.

Replacing her comforting smell and rhythms

With the chaotic stench of burning fossil fuel.

Consumed by the very teeming masses I yearn to avoid.

Is there an expectation for authors to comply?

To conform to an industry full of closeted boxes.

Who feigns normality to preserve their purpose?

I am a writer.

I am extraordinary.

I have associates, but my only friend is my wife.

My cocker spaniel Buddy is my ardent muse.

I wake up early for a bit of me-time?

I write each day – it is my consummate joy.

I come across as distant and reticent?

I read the subtlest of body language.

I am found in social corners where I examine people and their behaviours.

I am idiosyncratic because I follow my gut.

I never know when it is my turn to talk on the telephone.

I influence and manoeuvre to realize my dreams.

I hate red tape and stupidity.

Will I be ostracised because I don’t fit in?

Labelled as unpublishable?

Writers are exceptions to the enforced model.

For normal does not exist.

We go all out for the perfection in our mind’s eye.

I am an extraordinary author and for that,

I make no apology.

Merry Christmas