Tornado
Sky’s black fingered-funnel, pierces
the night; five people dead; brothers,
uncles, little mite.
Store clerks, soldiers, sheriffs in pants,
passed on to Jesus, pastors’ rants.
Ripped from the earth, never the norm,
houses gone, and cars in storm.
Roaring skies leave nought to shame; in
tornado’s deadly game.
Fire crews tear at deep-piled rubble, grey dust
catching, morning’s stubble.
Now the chaos, disaster’s bell, broken gas
and garbage smell, flattened ground where
houses were, shocked folk’s hearts, begin to stir.
Woman’s search for little dog, lies beneath the
swampy bog.
Clothes and shoes hang from the trees, honey-splatter,
from the bees; little spared by Devil’s knell, all is gone
to earthly hell.
We who bring the sheaves, to bread, brick and timber,
pipes and lead, grant us peace from wrath above,
sooth us with your sun’s warm glove.
Save your scorn for those who hurt, not the town of
love and work, let the people rise and rally, spare us
from tornado alley!
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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