Storm

The year’s suffused with wind. The scraps of cloud
come rushing by and all the air is filled
with unrest hurrying, with tiny sounds
that wail and rustle in the undergrowth -
a hint of rodents - and we cannot help
but listen to the noises with keen ears
to try to place them. Will the roof hold out,
its tiles intact, and can the elm still stand
the onslaught? All along the sodden lane
lie broken branches, scattered; up the road
a billboard has collapsed. The going’s hard
and in the house the doors creak, and our nerves
are tense and solely governed by vague fears
while simple questions just remain unheard
as all the time the wind is in our ears.