The Storm

The murmuring winds converge, entwining and absorbing the salty water.
As the waves rise and fall like a conductor’s baton, the foam forms and the seas swell.
It grows! The Tempest kisses the ocean and heads west, its rollers forever reaching and searching landfall.
It is menacing now and the Tempest is angry, its appetite ferocious, as it moves ever closer to its target.
The winds engorge the coastline as it feasts.
Relentlessly the sand and rocks accept defeat as they are consumed with feverish intensity.
The Tempest engulfs the earth, piece by piece, stone by stone.
She will take no prisoners today, for today she is monstrous.
She roars onward!
A small sheep huddles in the field. Its own woollen sheath heavy and wet from the onslaught.
Wildlife scatter for safety. They must hide and protect their young.
The storm urges further inland, almost encouraged by its success on the shore.
The ‘Old Oak’ is not immune.
It frantically tries to fight off its tormentor. It thrashes wildly and uncontrollably.
Its centuries of experience and longevity are nothing in the wake of this particular storm.
The storm gently whispers, wraps itself around the ‘Old Oak’ and takes it all.
The roots concede, the branches flail. It is over! The grandest of all trees is felled!
She is gigantic now. Relentless in her pursuit. She scythes across the countryside searching.
The river, usually so graceful and gentle, starts to panic and swell.
She is confused, her direction lost as her river banks burst and buckle under the weight of the Tempest.
She can’t hold it in. She gives in as the swathes of water funnel out into the fields and trickle like veins towards the village.
The tiny hamlet was expectant of the visiting storm.
Houses boarded, sandbags laid like brickwork to defend themselves.
Their defences were futile.
The storm laughs in the winds and vents its wrath.
The waters rise, the sandbags no longer visible. The town awash. Drowned by this most violent of visitors.
Tiles are ripped, windows are broken. Voices in the distance so quiet.
Banging and crashing as objects are spewed across the valley.
The storm howls like a victorious wolf after a kill.
With gaiety and mirth she absorbs the village and beyond.
She is content now. Her anger dispels. She is tired.
Her work is done. Now just a soft gentle breeze.
The voices in the distance more audible now. They cry!
The storm gives a final timid blow and then she dies.

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COPYRIGHT LAWRENCE SHAVE 17/12/2024