Res John Burman (27th October 1942 to 'Not Yet! ' / London, Middlesex, England)
After The Storm
Ah, the wind, the wind is dying,
As it puts the storm to bed,
In the sky the clouds are flying
As they chase each other o’erhead.
The halyards on the masts
Are quiet now they sleep,
When in the night they shrieked
Like tormented from the deep.
The shore is piled high
With bladder wrack and weed
And in the rippling shallows
The swans still search for feed.
In the harbour they are bailing
Storm water from the boats
And the Ferry won’t be sailing
Till we’re wearing lighter coats.
They're sweeping shattered mast wood
From off the granite pier
And three boats sank in Old St Ives
Across the land neck there.
In the park they use a chain saw
To cut up fallen trees
But after a storm like that
There’ll be no more falling leaves.
The Fuchsia’s at the Station
So bonnie just last week
Are curled, burnt and shrivelled
From that storms salt reek.
I’ve salt upon my windows
Five hundred yards uphill
And though it’s battered now
And tattered, my flag is flying still.
Comments about this poem (After The Storm by Res John Burman )
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