Storm - Ted Huge

Like mad puppets, bird-feeders jig.
The wind, a wild puppet-master,
whips them onward, faster, faster,
with rod and bar of branch and twig.

Flower-pots are tumbled; knocked for six.
The fence I built is standing, still;
and bird-table, by force of will
or two strategically placed bricks,

stays upright like a tall ship’s mast.
I pull my cap down, check around;
make all that matters safe and sound;
secure until the storm has passed.

Ted Huge