The Storm

A poem

It came from the west at the appointed hour

A whirling dervish of sound and fury

Upending trees and shattering glass

That, until then, had provided a security of sorts

From the hostile earth

And broken dreams of desert gods

Of covenants kept and unkept.

Tiles flew, chimneys shook

Time stood still, then accelerated

As hushed and hopeful mothers sought shelter from the merciless wind

And prayed their progeny might sleep once more

And again.

A fallen tree on the Marlesford Estate, Suffolk, the morning after Ciaran.

The next day, through shattered doors

And last suppers slopped on bloodied

floors

Men - for it is usually men - came to take an inventory

And reclaim what was theirs

Or should have been

Before that ashen light appeared on the horizon

Darkening hearts, making rocks speak

…

Afterwards, when the storm had abated

And memories had withered

The trees grew new roots

And groves fruited once more

And again

Awaiting the next storm

And the enmities that

never end.

- Marlesford, November 6, 2023.