Bluster Ways

I grew with Pooh, his windy days -

less fiction now, strewn sticks surround

the roads where elms once proudly stood.

The poplars sway, long avenues,

but brittle breakage took its toll

on branch and twig of ancient oak

as brutal battle followed calm.

There is no rhythm, sympathy,

when stills give way to sudden blows;

though mother’s pegs still hold the line -

delighted, shirt sleeves full blown sail,

like bellows filling, billowed scare,

that tacking, spinning rotary,

a swinging compass of the air.

They say it’s bluster, not for real -

for sometimes that’s how father is -

but I have seen the damage caused,

that need to swerve from course ahead,

avoid the littered, swirling scene,

await that moment, still returned

but knowing blows’ result again.

I see her turning, riding winds,

adjusting course to temper stings,

the quaking aspen, trembling face.,

a weeping willow oftentimes,

then bowing poplar, coming terms.

Some days after the storm has passed,

we search, find conker, yet encased.

Beneath her mirror, bedside stand,

‘amor vincit omnia’ plaque

belies reflection, blue eyed black,

her made up cover well rehearsed.

Her one report, authorities,

pooh-poohed by husband, Sergeant Strong,

so I expect more bluster ways.

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/12/all-bluster.html