AFTER THE STORM

AFTER THE STORM

AFTER THE STORM

She watches the rain
like a cat watches the rain,
intently, completely,

examining the pine-needles
of water on the carriage window,
and out beyond

at the silver roofs of barns
and at the barrel that has
crash-landed in a field.

Her feet are pin-ball flippers
twitching in their ankle socks,
impatient to leave.

The sky has the face of a black sheep.
Unnoticed, a tree has burst through
the lid of a machine gun billet.

It is a week after the storm.
Trees have fainted: they lie
face down where they fell.