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A squally night took out the kitchen's power

And washed into the hall by the front door.

Down in Southend the rough nocturnal hours

Kept me awake with memories of the raw

Assault upon our house in eighty-seven.

By breakfast it's still raging and the sky

Above the bloated muddy banks is ashen

Waiting for this bitter wind to die.

But nothing lasts, and while I am eating,

The greyness dissipates and winter blue

Seeps up from the west until the sun

Breaks on the morning's channels as they run

Back along the estuary, leaving a few

Tired clouds, as token of a storm retreating.

Brian Hick December 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 2.1.23