Vent

The forecast warned us it was coming 

French weather foretold

Preparing, alerting 

As the gusts turned cold

Maybe the eye-spinning speeds

Blew our minds 

Perhaps it sowed the seeds 

Doubts amidst the signs

And so to bed

 Before the embers die down

Lie down, eiderdown

What’s that noise, we frown

Straight to sleep

But restlessly

Gusts buffeting

Ceaselessly

 Anxiety stirring 

As wind speeds rise

The familiar rattle of metal 

Entrance to the barn twitching

Two heavy stones as doorstops

But the door noise never stops

Heart thumping

Or is that something loosening

Wood against wood

 The wind comes a-knocking

Metal again

New percussion for the symphony

Rhythmic, regular

Breathy beat of the wind section

Cymbal-like, it clashes

The crescendo

Building, building

Pieces flying off the building

It huffs and it puffs

 Powerful fingers sliding in-between 

Wind gathering in metal sails 

Making them billow, fluttering below

Each crash, each thump

Echoing into sleepless consciousness

The damaging gale 

Twisting, altering, making things less

Quietening at last

 As dawn’s light brings stillness 

Soft breaths 

All blown out

Morning breaks

 Ladder swaying as the percussionist

Going at it hammer and tongs 

Nails the rhythmic repairs