Trapped on the island by typhoon.
 It's evening dark, though at high noon.
  The waves are wild and still rising.
  So, ferries won't be running soon. 

The few streets there are lie silent,
 but - seaside - the winds whip violent.
  We hide inside a bungalow,
  and hope it's fixed firmer than my tent.

One 's always where it's most remote
 when they cancel all ferryboats:
  where there're too many thoughts to think,
  and few distractive antidotes.