by Mark O’Flynn.
Trees duel overhead
clashing branches like jousting poles.
At such times birds
are invisible taking shelter
in their secret places.
It knocks the stuffing out of you,
this wind. Exhausted. Exhausting.
The epileptic stars aglimmer.
Air snatched out of your mouth,
leaves hanging on by their grim petioles.
The gale patting you down
like a cop at the roadside finding
something that wasn’t there this morning.
At any moment afraid a branch
might drop on your head
or worse – your car.
The dust in the air like a sandstorm
in a desert film, grainy and parched
for a cloud to put the brakes
on things, to slow the whole
catastrophe down.