Small, icy, ball-bearings,
rattle down on the roof
of our ageing blue camper.
Rocked by the wind
it creaks and complains,
while you and I, lie
tucked in our sleeping bags
like two wintering caterpillars.
Even so, we are smug
in our choice of accommodation,
no wind battered tent
on this occasion
we reminisce.
All those other storms,
some, so far past and distant,
they are clouds on a horizon
that preceded
not just our old blue van
but mortgages
and children.
An age when we revelled
in near misses
and white knuckle moments
whilst held to ransom by the weather.
All those other storms -
when we kept each other safe
and had a tale to tell on our return.
Then, as time crept on
small squalls,
tempests
and tornadoes
littered our lives
but we rode them out - each one,
fending them off
with waterproofs and umbrellas
to emerge damp and ruffled round the edges
but no less intact.
Us two and
all those other storms,
so inextricably tangled,
we became
one storm,
one story,
one love,
one life
to be remembered
while lying in our feather cocoons
listening to the wild wind.
All those other storms -
and yet,
we still wish
we could emerge once more
when this storm passes
and fly away on butterfly wings,
to live, to fight them all again.
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