Beginning a poem

When clouds form and glower at the coast
now boarded-up for the season,
and the beast wind howls at the cliff,
it makes little sense to want to sit and
chronicle the sand's despair,
the fuming ocean. No matter how
rain hits thatch, how the Almighty sends
every droplet down, why fog sneaks
about the environs of my lover’s estate.
In her breast the African sun put love.
Memory rushes in and has me
sitting before this Remington,
with its keys that are flawed and faded,
wanting to type with abandon
and no specific hope.