In the great tempest of eighty-seven,

Mum and Dad remembered milk bottles

Bouncing and blowing down their quiet street.

Incredibly, none of them were broken,

Though hordes of healthy trees were smashed to bits.

But soldiers do not escape so lightly:

One bullet shot is easily enough

To shatter for good their unprotected shield.

The broken glass has to be collected

And put in dustbins, spruced up for the task.

Sooner or later, blood spurts through thin gloves,

As sulky troops, bent over at gunpoint,

Neglect to take proper care. Why should they?

Only hurricanes treat them with respect.

The wind does not tell lies. Humans do that.