The Weather Forecast
I cling to a tree to stay upright, the wind
is cruel, loud and wild, the air so very
much in motion. I am used to its inclemency,
all the weather’s recent vagaries, be
they hailstorms, snowstorms or blizzards,
tempests, gales or hurricanes.
There really is no need for isobars,
decibars, millibars or screened sermons
from weather-prophets, safe in warm studios
in their finery; we surely now believe
that climate is a-changing, like the times.
Mother Nature’s inclinations have always
given indications: I follow skies,
cloud movements and their colours, the flow of
waters, the aching in my bones. Even the
strains of birdsong sound nervous and their feeding
frantic, just before a storm. The avians and
the beasts are my weather-gauge, my weather- eye.
Undeterred, my snowdrops thrive,
always stoical, sweet, ice-white and full of promise,
a sign of brighter days to come.
I cling to that.