Hurricane Season, August 1991


We are the children of a cold war, grown warm:

We are the children of a hard peace, grown soft:

We are the children of a bitter age, grown old:

We are the children of a cold rage,  imagining . . .


Cold wind whips through your skin

raises goose bumps and involuntary shivers,

makes graying leaves crackle like

the pages of an ancient book.

The old truths are the only ones we have.

Nature, human and physical is all we truly know.

The rest is but a guess.


Yesterday was calm

with only the slightest whisper

suggesting that today

our eyes would be filled

with images snapping like flags

in harsh winds of change.


A storm of troops across the coloured screen

a vortex of lives across the troubled world

a deluge of lies, untrue facts, opinions

swirling like leaves and dirt through the gutter:

a full colour close-up of a summer storm.

People lost in a howling silence.

A leader is ill, we are told.

Hope dies.

A hurricane of fear blows around the world.

 © Philip Knight 2018