Austen.

Austen.

                                             The storm has arrived:              

                                        trees cower in obeisance

                                                                            and unseen wind chorales through

                                        boughs that bow           

in its barrage.

Only a red kite shares the sky

amongst the stripped leaves

and a flighty Sainsbury's carrier.

She skids through the rain

                    like kids in the playground

                                       on an ice-slide

           in January.

The storm has arrived:

herald to a winter yet to come,

foreteller of power cuts,

the unblessings of broken trunks,

and the impassable passageways of crowded drains.

The neighbour's demented flag

                               wynds the pole

                                                and writhes

against the furious wind

              an abstract pattern                                    

of red, white and blue.

It has a name,

this wind that has arrived,

but calling it by name

does not soothe

nor abate its delirium.

I suspect it senses

that it is not welcome.

kw 23/10/2026