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Beau
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Storm in the Eye of God
The sailorman who knew the truth
Below the shingle, sand and weed,
Battened down the memories
Of the Motor Vessel 'Cruel Deed'.
The purple veins across his cheeks
Ran scarlet in the sunset's pyre;
He heard the bosun tell the crew
'There are no pictures in the fire,
There's only a storm in the eye of God –
Only a storm in the eye of God.'
The Eskimo had settled down
To sleep away the endless years;
His rifle and his crucifix
He tied and tethered to his fears.
Without the sun, his unicorn
Had perished in the frozen mire.
He'd learned the hunter's homily
'There are no pictures in the fire,
There's only a storm in the eye of God –
Only a storm in the eye of God.'
The peasant squatted in the mud
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Upon the ground that he had ploughed,
His lifted eyes and leather lines
Appeasing every gathered cloud.
His spirit, ash to history's flame,
Went wheezing through the creeping briar.
The sun bled through the thorns and said
'There are no pictures in the fire,
There's only a storm in the eye of God –
Only a storm in the eye of God.'
As the ones and twos became a flood,
So we became discourteous.
The peasants and the sailors and
The hunters and the rest of us
Took aim as they approached the flame
And shot away their leading tyre.
There may be comfort in their dreams;
There are no pictures in the fire –
There's only a storm in the eye of God –
Only a storm in the eye of God.
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