Mid month
as a good a time as any other
to write of howling winds that smother
Every hint
of comfort and the daily norms
to replace them all with Darragh’s storms
Which break
the trees which crash and fall upon
wires, and thus: the village power has gone
And then
in every room in every country cottage
is darkness from the lack of wattage
No heating
warms, no ovens cook, no hobs to boil
and freezers let their contents spoil
Crouched around
wood burning stoves we try to read
by candlelight, wondering how to feed
On anything
that isn’t cake, or bread and cheese
or how to boil water for our teas
The luxury
of an old potato baked in the embers
(a boy scout’s trick my mind remembers)
Barely makes
a meal but is a change from more cold food:
stale bread, cheese with pickle slowly chewed
Deadlines pass
with no heat or glimmer of a friendly light
and then no power to warm my bed at night
Till suddenly,
hours before the last deadline, a sudden shock –
lights and heating are back in stock
