Mid month

as a good a time as any other

to write of howling winds that smother

 

Every hint

of comfort and the daily norms

to replace them all with Darragh's storms

 

Which break

the trees which crash and fall upon

wires, and thus: the village power has gone

 

And then

in every room in every country cottage

is darkness from the lack of wattage

 

No heating

warms, no ovens cook, no hobs to boil

and freezers let their contents spoil

 

Crouched around

wood burning stoves we try to read

by candlelight, wondering how to feed

 

On anything

that isn't cake, or bread and cheese

or how to boil water for our teas

 

The luxury

of an old potato baked in the embers

(a boy scout's trick my mind remembers)

 

Barely makes

a meal but is a change from more cold food:

stale bread, cheese with pickle slowly chewed

 

Deadlines pass

with no heat or glimmer of a friendly light

and then no power to warm my bed at night

 

Till suddenly,

hours before the last deadline, a sudden shock -

lights and heating are back in stock