The Gales
When the gales came in last Old New Year from nowhere
And communication lines long-standing were felled,
All the single-tracks with passing places were closed
And we couldn’t make it out over the sound.
We were all stranded and left without power on our own
And taken in time back two generations or more
To not so long before they went and brought in
The first real artificial light to the island.
There is something special about being on the Island when the winds roar and all about is dark.
Something elemental about the light of fire and candles being the only flicker of light within, and the stabbing of sheer silver, shredding the sky without as forked tongues of lightning grace storm broiling skies.
Somethign warming as hot griddled pancakes steam with dripping butter, running through and over greased fingers and chins.
Something tribal, as hunkered down in houses across the Island, folk gather and courrie in, awaiting the sometime end of this maelstrom.