Cthulhu Crop

The skirl of whipping wind
against craggy rock,
the cymbal crash of wave
against barnacled dock,
the frenzied chorus of seagulls
frantic in their flight,
the rumbling of thunder
amidst an early twilight,
the blaring bugle horn
of a boat tossing about,
the commotion of the crew
as they scramble and shout,
a whirlpool winding round
with centripetal force,
more powerful than any seen
by Greeks or Hebrews or Norse,
the sleepy hamlet hammered
by rains and by gales,
the docked ships trembling
beneath their tearing sails,
the church bells pealing out
a hysterical cry
as if to say, “The End is come!
The End is nigh!”
For lo! The seastacks all along
the jagged coral bed
are but the ancient cairns for
something long ago mistaken dead:
a seaweed-bearded god
that stirs from down below,
its tentacled wrath waking
to destroy all that we know.

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