The Beaufort Scale

How to know what’s coming? (Though, of course,
we always did.) The trees, uprooted, lay
on their sides, their tiny nests, so long hidden

from our peeping and peering, broken and scattered.
The four winds, like poker players after a long
night, are clumsy and bitter, but for the one,
quiet, almost forgetful, his pockets heavy,

driving, driving, your crumpled address in there
somewhere, and steering, as is his wont, poorly.


first published in the New Statesman, 21-27 March 2025
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