The Storm

The wind is howling through the trees, rattling my windowpanes,

They say a storm’s a’ comin’.

My mum is hurriedly preparing, my sister is scared to death,

And I’m sitting here watching, waiting, seeking inspiration for all my stories.

What would it be like to travel in such weather? Especially if you had no choice?

What would it be like to walk through this fierce, bitter wind for hours on end?

No shelter in anyone’s sight, only existing in your mind’s eye?

What would that be like?

But no, I cannot write, for I must spin my tales to my sister,

Who fears the wind and the storm and the noise.

She won’t go near the windows or out of anyone’s sight.

So I’ll tell her a tale of adventure and action,

A fairytale, perhaps, or a fantasy.

Something to ease her fears and take her to a land far away from here,

A land where no storm rages.

The wind is howling through the trees, rattling my windowpanes,

The storm has come and here we sit,

Huddled together in a story circle telling tales.

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