7th December

Where is hope, in this storm?

In the nearness of the brooding sky?

The racing of the brown leaf along cul de sac tarmac?

Is it in the shock of the driving wind and rain against your cheeks?

In the extra layer stuffed into your bag?

In the dented travel mug of coffee, leaky though it is?

The running through a downpour to beckoning lights?

In this storm is hope the man in high vis uprighting garden furniture again and again?

The rows of plants on their sides but still together?

The rolling Christmas tree, unwaveringly itself?

Or the roaring battering howling outbursts

with thick layered glass holding them at bay?

Is hope in this storm the angry canvas flapping in the gale,

refusing to be still and refusing to let go?