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South Westerly
A south westerly buffeted the house
all night, howling at the windows,
trying to find something loose
to lift up and rip away.
Then the rain hardened to hail
bruising early summer growth
with icy shot.
I like laying in bed
listening to rain but this was
no soft patter, no gentle sedative
to send one to sleep.
This was rage, broken free
of limits. Senses tightened,
stretched across sleepless hours
waiting for the breach,
the moment when wind
would find the weakest point.
No mind was in this fury
but a pure play of power,
vectored here on some fall
of numbers hidden
in the howl. Unencumbered
by thought or feeling
there was a raw beauty
to its might.
By morning it was all blown out.
Children jumped puddles
of blue sky on their way
to school. Workers were busy
clearing away a tree
that had fallen on a house
killing a couple as they
laid listening or slept.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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