To the Namer of Storms
Why did you name this Atlantic storm Brigid
and how did you develop her colours we saw
a few days ago on our screens, neon orange
and green with a pulse of magenta for a heart?
Was it over the Sargasso Sea she was
birthed and first spotted working her magic,
building her infinite power to crush
the stones that guard our settled coast?
I watched her out in our tall fuschia hedge
dancing in its intricate patterns of lace.
From the safety of my Dartmoor fireside,
she looked seductive, even bewitching,
yet further South, she was snapping
the sea wall beneath the West Coast line,
washing the moorings and ballast away,
till rails were left hung like a bad-ass dream.
Now, further East, people flee The Somerset Levels,
drained and occupied sparsely since Roman times.
Sheep stand on small islands as floodwater whispers
in meadows silvering quick as mercury.