Ah, the wind, the wind is dying, <br />As it puts the storm to bed, <br />In the sky the clouds are flying <br />As they chase each other o’erhead. <br /> <br />The halyards on the masts <br />Are quiet now they sleep, <br />When in the night they shrieked <br />Like tormented from the deep. <br /> <br />The shore is piled high <br />With bladder wrack and weed <br />And in the rippling shallows <br />The swans still search for feed. <br /> <br />In the harbour they are bailing <br />Storm water from the boats <br />And the Ferry won’t be sailing <br />Till we’re wearing lighter coats. <br /> <br />They're sweeping shattered mast wood <br />From off the granite pier <br />And three boats sank in Old St Ives <br />Across the land neck there. <br /> <br />In the park they use a chain saw <br />To cut up fallen trees <br />But after a storm like that <br />There’ll be no more falling leaves. <br /> <br />The Fuchsia’s at the Station <br />So bonnie just last week <br />Are curled, burnt and shrivelled <br />From that storms salt reek. <br /> <br />I’ve salt upon my windows <br />Five hundred yards uphill <br />And though it’s battered now <br />And tattered, my flag is flying still. <br /> <br />(December 2007)<br /><br />Res John Burman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/after-the-storm-10/
