How to charm a storm

On a day I chanced to sit
Under Hornbeam in my mitts,
Looking out across the vale,
Sheltering from the howling gale,
Tightly wrapped in scarf and cloak,
Listening to English Oak
Who was humming merrily.

Hornbeam said: ‘Does that a lot,
I fear he might have lost the plot.’
Me (in Tree):
‘But don’t I hear a tuneless,
Yet somehow catching sound,
Rasping, crashing noises,
Swishing whispers, cymbals, gong?’
A strange duet it was,
As storm and tree began
To tell of holding close and letting go,
Their voices joined in song.

English Oak made our day,
Deftly managed to allay,
To befriend the fearsome gale
Who presently began to play
Tag up there in the branches
Leading Dragon merry dances,
Who by then had left his home
Under Hornbeam’s root,
Having, frankly, quite a hoot
Chasing wayward waftings.

English Oak shook with laughter:
‘Oh it tickles! How delightful.’
Hornbeam (to me):
‘Now, what do you say to that?
I think we are duty-bound to add
Singing Wind to our odd
Language catalogue.’



Like a bird I crouch,
Perched on the highest window sill,
Afraid to fly, afraid of up and down
Afraid of my reflection in the glass.

Curled up I lie, the bed a heaving ocean,
Frothing from a thousand mouths.
Your touch is cool amidst the boiling sea,
Your hand my link to every-day.

A foggy dream, and in the damp around me
I drift, bereft of all direction,
And run aground and founder
On my journey home.

Your steady breath chastens the tempest
And like a strong current
Speeds my ship onwards,
With the clouds gone and the fog lifted.

Then I dare to raise my head again,
And look into your calm blue eye
And find my place,
And know myself again.

© jsmorgane (March 2011)