I am writing this as Storm Ali’s wind is blowing across our little acre in West Cavan. Living out in rural districts makes you pretty sanguine about extreme weather, but I will admit it is a bit bowel loosening (in a Stephen King kind of way) as you sit on the loo to hear tree limbs scrape across the flat roof of the bathroom extension.
When the Wind Blows
But you sleep through most of the storm
snug in your strange dreams of fictional spinsters
named Miss Milner
who presents you with a shoebox of incomplete accounts
that you heroically have to get
into chronological order.
But timelines are skewed.
They also overlap.
You can taste the “Eat Me!” Cake
that makes your head scrape the ceiling
until you want to donate it
to the Red Queen’s chopping block.
the storm still stews in its teacup.
The cats do not want to go outside.
Even The Wild One purrs by my side
as I draft this account.
The urge to huddle is strong.
Even among Cool Cats who would like to consider themselves
Street Fighting Men.
The willow’s trunk-
the one by the prayer cairn
in the Fairy Garden-
has split in two.
The sunflowers –
The ones called American Giant –
are lying face down.
Copyright 2018 Bee Smith