She swells the sea to snowy mountain peaks,

churns green murk all the way to the cloud line,

tousles the heads of trees and drags empty beer

cans kicking and screaming up the drive. She

throws the bins off the kerb before the men

call for them in the morning. She blows away

all hope of a good night’s sleep, and in some

houses takes the electricity with her. We see it

splitting the air, thrashing the clouds with its net.

When Eleanor wakes to find she’s puffed herself

out, the Christmas decorations are gone too.

First published in The Frogmore Papers, issue 92.