This is the beginning of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, inspired by the Emil Nolde painting The Sea B (which is in the Tate). It's probably about a pagan messiah figure, a man to whom nature is sort of an extension of himself.
Peacock clouds compress oppressive rusting mustard skies,
Straining for the heaving heavens, swell-top droplets fly,
And toiling in the rain-spoiled roiling, unheard seabirds cry.
Lumbering their foetid fervour, undulations run,
Death-cold depths drag driftwood farther from the living sun,
And in the tug, in net-wreathed grandeur, stands the Storm-Sung One.
Around his form the storm-eye lies and holds the water still,
His finger clicks a thunder-crack, the lightnings smite his will,
And every tear a raindrop, as the stained and rent skies fill.
His heart's as long and frostbit as the lying leagues below,
His mind's a placid torrent of the deepest indigo,
And watch his taut eyes slacken as the tumbling wave crests grow.
That face is shadowed corners while a storm-riff fills the air,
He summons the horizon and a far off clifftop there,
And stepping from his vessel shakes the darkness from his hair.