Nigel McLoughlin


A Storming

Often she would sit beside the fire
when the wind was rife
outside and rucked the trees
and hung among the tresses
of the grasses.
She would sit and listen to it all
as it rose and fell
about the roof; a storm
that pulled at the mortise lock
and shook the door, or squeezed
between the gappy wood of eaves
to invade the house.

Sometimes, I think, it raged
inside her too and dragged
the fire in her eyes like bellows
into life. Until, full blown
in its broiling, she’d go out
into the night to face it down
and I out after her to lead her home
would find her laughing with all her might
and her silver hair raging at the night.

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