The Front The sun’s fingers massage my back, warms my skull, spine, my flesh. Son of God, His Spirit warms my soul within. Upon far horizon a front contests the blue, a pressure ridge, the edge of dual grey creeps, dull dark clouds hides clear skies, like endless pack-ice it looms. White plumes spike, abstract periscopes of gloom, searching for ways to hide suns rays. By breakfast it gained ground, thick layers of dual grey cloud hover almost above, covers shore and sea. Yet for now I’ll sit coffee in hand, swallow eggs, munch toast. The front anexes its way, my eyes watch the mercury drop. I still don’t mind as cloud rolls in, the sun’s rays cover my back. I look again: The wall of cloud feigns a stall, the blue holds ground, clouds encircle. I sit beneath a sphere of blue. The islands winds push upward, confronts the grey, hold it-push it back. The front changes tactics, clouds break off swirl around the island, come behind my back. Still the sun shines through. The light is sweet. A wind change, it strengthens - the front pushed back. The cloud flattens, thins, yet holds its ground. The battle raged all day till the clouds fragmented and were blown away. © Craig A Roberts, 2022