The gale

Tonight the wind is driving at well over thirty

Through the streets of Bristol,

Tossing coins of dustbin lids,

Out through Bedminster,

Out over the fields,

Tickling his feet on the hedges,

Combing his hair on the elms,

Breaking the sound barrier over the coast,

Armed to the teeth with bullets of rain,

Careering in the sky,

Firing on houses and rooftops and trees,

And bombing the turbulent seas.

Angry on the water,

Bad-tempered on the land,

Gathering snow in the mountains of Wales,

On the beaches of Weston, gathering sand.

Hurling, attacking, beating, sweeping,

Howling round the Mendips,

Like playing cards dealing the roof tiles

Of Churchill’s ancient farms and barns.

Then relenting, recanting, bewildered, weeping,

Sulks in a corner by Burrington Combe,

As his elder sister, Silence,

Calm on the stony peak of Dolebury,

Shakes her head and smiles.

Poem every Monday