A flood of darkness through the window rains
monsoons of midnight blue upon her hair
and though no light within the room remains,
her locks reflect a purple lightning’s glare.
Her curls are poured in gales ‘cross her skin
and blow within the vales of her breast;
her fingers find the flow and then begin
to twist those winds in plaits against her chest.
A surge of black sweeps silver on the bands
and fall in squalls of raging cyclone grey,
‘till in the shallows of her harbouring hands,
a ribbon ties those braids of typhoon spray;
and never has a tempest been so fair,
as she, who binds the storms within her hair.
(Conrad K van den Bergh, 2015)