STORM

(a poem by 11 years old Emma)

In the peace and quiet and dead of the night,

A small wind blows,

It rattles the chimney like a sinister ghost.

People curl up in their beds, shivering.

The wind grows stronger,

Hurtling recklessly in every direction.

The trees thrashing around,

Casting trembling shadows through windows.

Next comes the endless rain,

Beating on the windows like a drum,

Like a heart beat.

The rain tries to escape

From the howling echo that is the wind.

The rain tries to be independent from the wind,

To create its own path in life.

The rain battles on tirelessly throughout the night,

Until it finishes victoriously, tired but content.

Independent.

It is free from the ferocious wind,

Until the next storm in life.

People peer out of their windows,

Gasping in horror at the damage that has been done.

In horror, but admiration too,

At the power that fueled this storm.

A few of them realise,

That they have a battle to win,

To stay true to themselves,

Like the rain.

Like the storm.

(Emma Dimitrova, my 11  years old daughter, 15/2/20)