Storm Darragh
(Prose poem)
A carousel wind swept around the square then careered down Market Street whistling. Tornadoes of dry leaves spun towards darkest sky. Pub signs squeak-creaked, squeak-creaked, squeak-creaked as if they might break free and sail into churning fury. Two locals braced themselves against the blast, their raincoats rattling like rigging. “This one’s called Darragh,” yelled the man. “They give them names now, you know.” “Ridiculous!” shrieked the woman. “It’s only a bit of wind…” but her voice was whisked away over rooftops. As Ruthin’s Seven Eyes shuddered and flexed, the man and woman – bent over like peacocks, their bags trailing behind them – scuttled towards St Peter’s, where angel gates trembled and the spire’s golden cockerel thought he might discover flight. Meanwhile, in Cae Ddôl’s green expanse, an ancient oak smashed to earth – its crashing loud enough to destroy the gates of Annwn. Tiny tree sprites with terrified eyes – the Tylwyth Teg – leapt, screamed and wept as they tried to merge with greenest shadow, but no humans heard the tree’s thundering demise over the roaring of Darragh’s wind.
A towering oak
withstands five hundred years
to lie broken
on flooded grass.
Pat Sumner