1987 Poem by Bill Wright

'Don't you worry', the weatherman said,
'There is no hurricane coming tonight'
The dreadful sounds would awake the dead,
Poor old Michael, you didn't get that right

Like a wailing Banshee the wind did blow,
Our house exposed on top of a hill
Fence panels it did like frisbees throw
And seemed to scatter them at will.

In the morning scenes of utter chaos,
Trees the height of houses on the ground,
Many falling across major roads,
Causing transport problems all around.

The wartime spirit returned to Britain,
Neighbours helping to repair the mess,
'Here's your fence, have you seen my dustbin? '
Soon back to normal. More or less.

We got off lightly, others did not,
Caravans battered, reduced to matchwood,
Wind-strewn contents, some lost the lot,
An empty space, where a home once stood.

The Great storm of nineteen eighty seven,
Remembered by all who felt its force,
Reminded us all of the power of heaven,
When good old Nature does its worst.