You’re a Poet

ISLAND HURRICANE

Sizzling ends of live wires, clotted
. . . . . in treetops or spilled onto downtown

streets by toppled towers of power
. . . . . lines, now hissed and writhed like snakes

knotted in their nest. Mudslides
. . . . . flowed by, running black in the avenue

gutters, and shallow rivers of brown
. . . . . water wound around surrounding hillsides

along narrow roads scarred with ruts,
. . . . . as if smudges of printer’s ink had bled

down wet pages of an old newspaper
. . . . . left out in heavy weather. At the center

of this little village, some storefronts
. . . . . wrecked and glazed with muck were marked

by torn awnings, worn cloth flying
. . . . . like taut nautical flags raised in warning.

After a haze filled the air—so much
. . . . . sand and soil cast up by gusts—the hard

rolling winds even seemed as dark
. . . . . as those low clouds still swiftly shifting

overhead, shrouding the razed roofs
. . . . . and fallen wallboards covering the dead.

. . . . . —Edward Byrne

It’s a bit graphic, but amazing description.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: