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© Alan John Ward

Eleanor, 2 January 2018

April 30, 2019

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.

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