Silver Ghost

And so the tree, which has stood its ground
Since Queen Victoria was standing hers,
Which has seen seasons come and go;
Breathing the smoky aroma of things
Long dead in the air all around,
Has finally sighed its last and bowed
Too far to the night-time howl…one final
Groan then sinking to the earth to sleep
The sleep of Nature’s innocent.

The house hadn’t existed when our friend
Was planted these many moonshines ago.
Its collapse surprisingly hindered by
Bricks and mortar; clay, wood and stone. As birds
In its branches, wingless the inhabitants peer through –
Wondering what guardian angel must
Have been watching over them this first hour
Of Christmas Eve. All should have been crushed to dust,
Splintered like that tree which will no more
Look through into the windows of their lives.

Fortune indeed smiled, on some, that night.

The day after the night before

And so we’ve survived.
The roof hasn’t blown off (unfortunately as we could have done with a new one on the insurance!). The rickety old fence still stands by the garage and my small green waste bin resides in its usual place under the open porch roof. I was convinced that I could hear it making a quick getaway last night. Instead the gales have upended the large recycling bin like the afterthought of a child in a temper.
We seem to have topped the league tables for the power of the beast’s roar at 99mph, and we have flattened beach huts under a piece of cliff that has decided to stop clinging to the rest.
As I tentatively drive to take my parents to their doctor’s appointment, I notice that a modern bungalow up the road has inherited an old chimney that has landed on their front wall.
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