The year was eighty-seven,
The year we had the storm.
The wind howled through the night,
Tiles clattered,
Trees toppled,
Rooves moved,
And fell.
The countryside changed,
Yet only eighteen died.
As I drove to work
The landscape was different.
The trees that had blocked my view were down,
Tiles were everywhere.
I got into work, Building Maintenance at the time,
The ‘phones never stopped.
I sent men out to view the hell
That the wind had produced.
Yet only eighteen died.
They tales they told were both horrific,
And funny.
They told of the rooves
They found on the ground,
Lifted from blocks of flats,
And laid to one side.
Of the tree that fell between
Two blocks, yet touched neither.
Of the greenhouse in the middle of the road,
All glass still intact.
Yet only eighteen died.
The saddest part of all
Was that the wind was salt laden,
It killed the colours of autumn
All over the borough.
So that day when we drove to the west
Was so very strange,
So very beautiful,
Because we drove into autumn.