Photograph used by kind permission of Phil Hinton


We caught the tail-end of their hurricane.

She was not yet fully spent, like a fading

soul diva, who may no longer rock the gowns

and dresses, but whose lungs still retain

the power to snatch anyone’s attention.


Her momentum had smuggled a tropical grenade

across the Atlantic. It strafed our skies for

half a day and an endless night. The old trees

largely shrugged it off. It was the younger ones

– their growth too tall, too close, too rapid –


who fell, though they were only upended,

pushed over, throwing up the underskirts of

their exposed roots in shame, not snapped

across their trunks and flung as shrapnel

at fields and villages tens of miles distant.


In the aftermath, we entered the woods again,

found ourselves arrested by exotic air, the remnant

of scents we couldn’t identify. And if we closed

our eyes, we heard them on the wind – now nothing

but a background stirring – those calypso rhythms.

first published in The Cannon’s Mouth, Issue  61, 2016


One thought on “Katia

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