We watched the sky,
complete in our expectations,
warmed by our togetherness,
centered in our predilections
and the storms rolled in.
The clouds built up,
tall towers above the southern hills,
great siege engines
turning black
and rolling down the valley
towards us.
We sat,
calm,
sipping our whiskey
and waiting patiently
while the wind picked up.
The Sun was blocked
and all the world
became festooned with darkness.
Purple,
like an angry bruise,
but we didn’t fear the violence;
we expected it.
We sat
and watched the lightning play
and heard the thunder roll
and when the strikes got close,
we picked up our glasses
and went inside.
We put on an old movie
and listened
to the clash and clamour
and the driving wind.
It stopped sometime overnight.
After our morning coffee,
we strolled out to the garden
to see what,
if anything,
had survived the storm.
The trees were unbroken,
if bare of a few leaves
and the vegetable rows
had picked up some debris
that would require cleaning,
but the daffodils were broken.
Every stem snapped.
Too beautiful
and too delicate
for such a tumultuous night.
The casualties;
by fate or fortune
they lay down their yellow heads,
like soldiers,
who had died doing their duty.
We tried to stand a few,
but nothing doing.
The force of nature’s wrath
had been absolute
and there would be no saving.
We went back inside
and finished the breakfast dishes,
discussing what to do
with the flower garden.
We decided that we would just leave it,
wait and see what fills the space left,
now that the daffodils are gone.
Something will come up,
it is early yet in the season.
Maybe something beautiful.
Maybe more daffodils.
HG – 2017
