This poem was written to celebrate the first named Storm Lady, about a year ago, so perhaps it is still appropriate now.

 

Storm Ladies

 

 

Storm Lady Immogen hammers our doors and our windows

it’s the fault of Aeolus for letting her out of his bag

and our fault as well, for tattooing a name on her

innocent shoulder.

 

Is she tempted to blow as when all Suffolk’s windmills

indignantly groaned into flame, with their arms madly whirling,

ripped oaks out like sprout stems, demolishing church-towers and drowning

some eight thousand sailors?

 

‘A once-in-five-hundred-year tempest,’ could blow up again, any minute.

because Gaia’s provoked, or a force generated at random ?

Either way we can’t see, cannot draw, this fierce air that we picture as sinister

isobars, sliding and clenching.

 

“But I love wind” you say, and we know what you mean is

the scent on spring breezes and bracing brown gusts in the autumn

that whirl leaves round our heads and throw rooks like old rags round the sky

But beware what you love, for

 

the Wind-God has ungentle daughters, his feline avengers:

watch out for a day which is still, with the grass hardly moving,

when we peer through the pane, and we ask ourselves

‘What is that roaring?’

 

 

 

 

02 2016

 

Advertisements