Storm at Bondi

Furled, a clenched fist, recoiling to spring

Before the first

Punch.

Restraining no longer, powered forward

By the air which is breath and life force and -

Spill. Sweat drips.

Droplets hit the bustling crowd

Beneath as though rain droplets dispersing in

Water.

The fury of one is the fury of all.

Clenching, unclenching, sweating, dripping.

The firey movement is the creator of it's great agressor.

She regulates the tempo of proceedings, ebbing

And flowing in deep rhythm, keeping time on the beating

Drum of her surface.

Taut, then broken, taut, then

Broken.

Time passes marked by her movement,

Signalling to the competitors they are almost up.

The game is almost up.

One final, furled

Fist.

Almighty crack.

It does not rain,

It

Pours.