October 1987

October 1987

It was a very English

Hurricane

Blowing hard all through the night

There were holes in roofs

Tiles driven through gate posts

Cars formed part of an installation

A modern work of art

Complete with crows nests

On broken seats

They said it wouldn’t last

But blow out across the channel

Others called for sacrifice

Misquoting Nostrodamus once again

Twas ever thus

Twenty centuries and more have passed

Yet voices keep on calling

For something more this way

To come

When will they ever learn

There is no redemption without

Acceptance

That the lonely road we choose

Is the road well paved by man

The future always lies ahead

How we twist and turn depends

On what we do

Not on what we say

The crows are lost without a home

At least they have dustbins

To occupy their time

Dab hands at petty thieving

They will eat anything

Which is just as well

As there is a lot of windfall

A carpet of ripe fruit

Rich pickings for the displaced

Everything has an upside

There is no time to pray

When the road is blocked

With run-off

Topsoil from the farmland

Blocking the drains

Nothing is moving

Not even the trains

All we need are locusts to descend

Upon us

And there will be retribution

Let it be written

As those who would be wise men say

Only fools rush in

With an educated guess

Yes

John Kettley was a weatherman

And so was Michael Fish.