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