In that storm barely a house could stand tall. So bold was the gale, so fierce was the pelting rain, that even the smallest rotten beam could be its undoing. Beneath every door, from the window frames, came odourless fingers to goosebump the skin. Within its trembling walls, we prayed that upon its passing what was left would be enough to rebuild and renew.
The gale came as heavy thrash-metal song, to up end the peace, yet for the purpose of screaming a pain-message for all to hear.
The gale created its own song in the boughs, a request for the fragile to stay safe at home.
In a gale we use our compass and pray. There are times you do your best, fight your hardest, and still admit that most of the outcome is up to the gods and fate.
The ocean is our mother and upon bonny breezes she carries us onward to horizons with grace, yet when the gales come it is all the more important to navigate into calm waters well.
The gale is the wake-up call to the captain, for in these times the crew cannot sail on without good guidance.
Our captain was a god of the sea, not metaphorically, literally, and could command gales to grant us safe passage.