The storm swept over us
like a cape across the sky,
wind so fierce it tore the leaves off the trees
and sent them upward,
a manic scene out the window,
swirl of orange and red,
the bounce of hail off the deck,
trees protesting,
creaking with the effort to stay upright.
The thunder bellows
and we make appreciative echoes of awe,
but we don’t cower.
We are inside with mugs of tea,
and nature is just a show
we choose to watch.
Then I think,
as I often do,
of the soldiers
almost a hundred years ago
living in trenches
under a storm like today,
open wounds in the earth
like miles of graves
crawling with men,
dignity and hope drowning in mud
as they steadily forgot
what it was
to be dry,
to be human.
I know I should
be grateful
but I suddenly feel angry,
as though the storm has now
slipped inside me.
I want to claw back
the rot of those years
and the sorrow
for all the lives
it never gave back.