Aftermath - Diane Scantlebury

It’s the aftermath of the storm
That through leafy suburbs
Has ripped and torn,
Weary, rain soaked revellers
Recant tales of lucky escapes,
Of winds that howled and roared
Reeking helpless, hopeless havoc,
Debris scattered and lives displaced,

In the bold, bright light of day
Heads shake in disbelief,
For the rage that shook the night
Lashing all with its vicious tongue of devastation,
Is barely a whisper now.

Diane Scantlebury