Sunday, December 29, 2013


A Wind as sharp as a surgeons scalpel scythed

cylindrical things trees and wires to fall 

dumb on damned storm sodden ground.

Twenty-three hours of south Atlantic gale blew

A thousand banshees to scream. Howl, hanging

on corners of houses, old hags un-prettily dressed.

Merciless waves pounded hard faced cliffs, sentinels

standing doggedly against dull drumbeats of death.

In retrospect. Sense soldiers stories from the Front

of continuous bombardment and lulls of silence 

that heralded the wailing of Moaning Minnies.

No War now. Just an atmospheric battle, a hurricane

that a modern God cannot prevent.    We rely upon

ancient gods of this island Anu, Bríd, Daghda and Lugh

to intercept on our behalf with their mighty wisdom.

These guardians of animals, crops, fields and rivers

ever alive these proud providers of their people.

Over whose sleeping lands of winter they walk 

treading old paths from stone forts to raths.

© MRL 29-12-13