Forecast Code

Just off the edge of the edge of land
I am familiar with a proud tower
The solitary occupant of which, the Monitor
when not gazing upon the frothy sea
Attends to instruments
Wind vanes, hydrometers, barometers

His is the duty to examine, to predict even
The play, the entanglement, the lovemaking
Of air masses - and the attendant results
Of said activity

Just two days ago, scarcely a heartbeat
In geologic time
A force ten gale ripped the sea to shreds
Tossing boats to the bottom - knocking men senseless
Washing them overboard
Dropping trees, whipping stoplights
Like windchimes in a monastery door

And then stopped

What followed, a lull, the withdrawing of
Extremes, difficult for the endurance of Poseidon, who delights
In storms, but requiring it. For there are a few things
Which even a Poseidon cannot master

As the candle guttered out, high above the sea
The monitor writes in his daily logbook, the brute
Facts of the day, but he adds :

Tonight I wonder what the Front itself must apprehend
In the moment before the collision
Which creates the storm, and in which
The Front is destroyed (but the constituent air remains).