A poem about a scene from real life that stays in my memory of my childhood.

"Bad weather is forecast,"

they had said.

My grandmother knew it -

the wind was unusually high;

slates crashed from the roof

in the middle of the night,

and gritter trucks were out

near the old toll house.



Bad weather is here,

but still we venture out.

The sea lures us to

a deserted promenade,

devoid of summer visitors -

gray, and overcast.

There are thunder clouds overhead,

but it may not last.



Bad weather,

and we cling to the rails,

watching fierce breakers roll.

The air, full with rain

as the waves crash,

house-high,

yards from where we stand.

My father, his eyes on the horizon,

encloses me in his iron

hands.



Bad weather:

my mother stands away from the

barrier, her back turned, anxious,

lest the tide sweeps us away,

like flotsam and jetsam.

Her isolated words cut through

the thunderclaps,

like notes from a song.

“Be careful, Ronnie.”

He turns his back on the waves,

and takes us home.

Copyright, Suzy Davies 05/06/2016.