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0 Comments | Oct 06, 2019

A Storm Called Cassandra

Barren landTomorrow the sun burns the tiniest bit hotter.

The rain falls ever so slightly harder.

The wave washes an inch farther up the sand.

The child has a bit less to eat.


It’s slow motion game of chicken.

Except chicken is not quite the right word.

Because in chicken, someone blinks.

Only nature does not blink.

And game is also not the right word.

For games have winners and losers,

and there are no winners in this.


There is only the sun

and the rain,

the wave

and the hungry child,


and a tiny handful

who cry out like Cassandra,

into the unfeeling void,

their warnings echoing futilely

across the barren brown land.



October 5, 2019

Brian Kenneth Swain

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