The Storm That Never Was (Poetry)

The morning after and no evidence — no carnage from
the violence warned about — no trail of broken limbs
or roof tiles flung — the trees stand where
they’ve always stood — unmoved — and tolerate a nagging wind
that heaves and puffs but fails to lift and shake
more than a creaking foot or two of close-clumped fir
or urge the fragile silver birch to testify as such
when the beating was no worse than she has known before.

The pines are stoic and the deeply-needled grass below
is comforted with all those swelling thicknesses of brown
where sunlight rests a moment — lightens — then moves on
and half-turned leaves continue to succumb
in their own time — unhurried — lazy drift on down...

And one by one the ruffle-feathered pigeons reappear
swoop in as though proclaiming ‘nothing’s really happened here —
it was just a few strong gusts — a teacup sort
of autumnal drama — mostly posturing and bluff!’

Now the rain is drying on the leaves — the day unrolling mild —
such calmness surely proof enough.