Force Seven

 

In the lusty wind the cables whine

From pole to pole bending the matchwood

Wands by the throat fiercely.

Riding at high mast the grim-eyed beetles

Clamp their spiked boots deeper and check

The safety lock on their leather girdles.

With unnatural fingers they fumble for the

Lurching wires that clash spitting sparks

And lunge apart merrily hissing.

Rude logic measures the steel, the wind, the wand,

And knows one fateful gust will undo mathematics;

One dancing wire with threaded jowls

Could tear a man’s head from his fearful shoulders

And send it flying into the gale

Like a funny ball,

Into the maws of the thrashing trees spewing

Great cracking branches

As dandelion hair.

 

Frantically we bang the shutters together

And throw the lawn furniture into the shed

Higgledy-piggledy;

Push the picnic table against the side door

And try to grab the jumping clay pot that

Leaps out of its macramé net upsetting the

Surprised ivy on to the porch steps.

Leave it! Get in! Get in!

Cowering in the heart of its snapping bush

One gorgeous red hibiscus not yet shredded

Bleeds on my eye.

Blindly I dash to its rescue, and pluck it free,

Cupping it in my small hands, gently.

And back through the gale I jack-knife crazily,

Cradling its unblemished beauty.

I put it in a glass of water and set it in the window

To shine

For the men on the lines.

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas