There was a sort of blush to that roseate looking sky

It was the sort of sunset that would have caught my eye

Even without the dissent of dissonance and chaos of disorder

Out there seen slightly edgy and oddly on the border

Was the leftover remains of a storm’s strange mess

The kind of a mess that urges one to want to confess

That while storms might be seen at times as a disaster

There are those waves begging to be rode during and after

And after all what is a surfer to do but to do

Those things are meant to and ought to pursue

Like searching for that ever after of a perfect wave

That keeps us strongly going  on and on to our graves

Red sky at night,  they say, is a sailor’s earthly delight

But red sky in the morning gives its warning to a surfer’s delight