The wind whips across the water,
Slashing and crashing
Against the hulls of all berthed vessels,
Bashing and thrashing
Against their mooring ropes,
They struggle to break free from the onslaught.
Whistlings in the rigging,
All of the same shrill tone
Echo eerily round the basin.
On the higher banks, trees bend to the wind’s will,
Birds try valiantly to stay on their winged course
As others seek shelter on low ground.
Spiked rain cuts into our faces
As we walk against the flow making for Home.
The cold creeps through
Our coats, hats and gloves,
Into our bodies, almost freezing
The blood in our veins
As we try to keep upright
Against the bitter wind.
Finally on board,
The Howling rockets and richochets around us,
Swaying us, swinging us,
Blowing us one way, then the other,
Trapped in a whirlpool of
Boiling water which is actually
In slippers, fingerless gloves and blankets
We huddle together,
A sorry trio determined
Not to let the elements win.
Gradually warmth spreads to our fingertips,
Seeping into our bellies
And the raw redness
Of our skin fades,
Replaced by a healthy glow.
Thank heavens for the miracle of hot tea.
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