Weathered

Jolted awake by Storm Christoph

I hear the eucalyptus roaring. The chill air rushes

through the open window, a growl in the dark.

I think of Kate Bush singing about wind whistling through the house - 

and then it forces the 

bedroom door to click open, closed, open, closed, open again,

a cheap scary-movie effect that has me seeing

twelve, one, two o'clocks,

and rising at three to write this.

I think of other storms I've weathered-

the photographs of little me in my buggy beside felled trees

from the 1987 hurricane, 

aged oaks laying like the sick triceratops in Jurassic Park.

Or,

leaning my full body weight against that wind
on the cliff in Cornwall on my birthday last year, 

giddy with the rush and laughing in my saturated coat and glasses.

Or the Margate wind we couldn't quite explain.

The storm we crawled up aeroplane steps in, laughably testing your fears.

I think of windows -

the spaghetti measurer my mum uses to close her kitchen window 

because she can't quite reach.

The one we could watch the seafront fireworks from on New Year's Eve.

Peter Panning saying "Always keep it open!"

I think of doors-

this very bedroom one that wedged shut when we had a train to catch.

My oldest-nephew and my almost-niece sweetly singing 'Love is an Open Door'

when they were both little.

The glossy varnish of the front door of my parents' house,

with its letterbox that's far too small.

I listen at the howl outside, thinking how I’ll return to the warmest of beds and try to sleep.

I listen for the gate we repaired yesterday to split again.

I wait for sleep but wind, and windows, and doors, churn in my mind.

I weather this storm too.