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.