The norwester is off the wagon again
been bingeing on some cyclone brew
now come south to roister in the forties.
Lurches down my street
shop sign rattles alarm
wires strum warning.
Leaf shoals dart in panic
paper and plastic play tag, cavort,
cocking a snoot at the blusterer.
The kerbline matriarchy of elms
toss their heads, expressing outrage
in a rush of sibilant gossip.
But the old, tall pine
who’s seen it all before
merely soughs and leans southerly.
Close-grained isobars pre-ordain
a curving course sou’east
and the ocean curls its spume-flecked lip.
When white-out comes
the antarctic seas
pack the prodigal’s head in ice.
© Jack Perkins Feb 2001
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