Lost in the storm. (Ballade)

Lost in the storm:

The winds whispering through the trees.
Cool breeze blows gently on my skin.
The tides now so rough in the seas.
Grey clouds in the sky seem to spin.
Moist salt spray settles on my chin.
The shoreline not very distinct.
Remaining light becoming thin.
The day's warmth becoming extinct.

Twilight's grace, a beautiful tease.
Now slowly the night will creep in.
Day surrenders to night with ease.
Difficult to see where I've been.
Think I am lost, I have a grin.
Everything is so indistinct.
I trod and kick an empty tin.
The day's warmth becoming extinct.

Then I trip and fall on my knees.
My nasty mood will now begin.
Getting cold, I begin to sneeze.
The light fades fast, I cannot win.
Now I limp, I have a sore shin.
It appears, I need my instinct.
Starts to rain, put on my oilskin.
The day's warmth becoming extinct.

A storm is about to begin.
Roaring thunder so in-extinct.
Find refugee to shelter within.
The day's warmth becoming extinct.

Steven Beesley (c)

Ballade:
A French form composed of 3 stanzas of 8 lines each and an envoy of 4 lines, with the last line of each stanza being a refrain. Usually 8 or 10 syllables per line.
The rhyme scheme is ababbcbC ababbcbC ababbcbC bcbC.