You wouldn’t believe what it was like, unless you were there, unless you felt it.
The sea is possessed, a swirling, rolling terror. When it comes like this, no one can survive.
Don’t argue with it or dare, it’s insane.
Wild water surges through and over our defences; we’d thought them strong and they were… in the calm.
Sea and wind throw grit in our eyes, heads down to survive; we have no clothes for this, no protection against this rage.
We watch the shingle pushed and dragged, pounded and altered; thick white foam oozing across the road, pushing us back.
We see cars consumed, we can’t go on; trees bend and break on the retreat home, a face-smacking leg-lifting south-westerly.
Though the following day is quiet
The trees stand still and silent; the sea, a mill pond touched gently by the autumn sun.
It’s quiet as a cathedral; the shingle, a silent prayer.
We cut up fallen branches, good for the fire one day; and pick up leaves, forced against walls in obedient piles.
Nature’s mess and still the sense of shock; but no madness here today.
We tidy a little, handle the broken with care, restoration begun.
Storms, they come, they smash and they go.
