Blow Wind, Come Wrack - Peter Isaacson
One of the Top 24 submissions in our 2022 Urban Tree Festival writing competition.
Blow Wind, Come Wrack
Dudley, Eunice and Franklin I heard. Straight as ravens but without their helpful omen inky signature, flying north east across the sound to the other island, the poor neighbour. Hell must be many atrocities hotter than the better place lately, for all heaven’s broken loose. De-baptised banshees, exhumed poltergeists, and fallen angels firing hailstones, vacuumed out of paradise howling and kicking into my wife’s garden. Never a cross word nor bible bashed; an uncontaminated soul, wishing only peace, goodwill and the same as repayment. But don’t mess with her cottage garden mind. Hell no!
Finally the Lord of the Isles grants me leave to attend, with her, the broken magic, the shattered wands; snowdrops and daffodils hang their hapless heads for shame and mourning. Her hallowed osier bed! Has a withering fusillade of cannonball and grapeshot raked through here? Fouled up willow masts hooking at unholy angles, cracked, sallow limbs that swing and moan; their sinewy joints, rough butchered, torn apart and splayed to hang and dry. Underneath white digit twigs, shreds of skin; oh bitter pill to swallow!
A cauldron of PG tips, muttered incantations, buttered toast. Then fearful dragging of the fallen from the field. Another steaming grail, this time a hint of bergamot, possibly toe of frog? But no semi skimmed milk of cow. She summons the trinity, Jackson, Spear and Stanley, mighty wizards of old Albion and with powerful counterblows dispels the devil’s dreams. Bring on Putin, Jinping and Jong-un; they wouldn’t stand an earthly.
Peter Isaacson
Peter Isaacson is by profession a laundryman and scarecrow who lives in the inner Hebrides. He writes poetry because he doesn’t understand the world and rude songs to maintain some perspective.
