After the great storms I watched the news when Kent was destroyed I wrote this. It isn't romantic but always been one of my favourites.


No person has ever read it.






The wind weeps


The breeze can't be heard


The wind blows through touching my skin


I hear the wind


The breeze gets stronger it pulls at me


The wind holds the form of the tree


The breeze dances moves its leaves


The wind it pulls them to be betrayed


The clouds form dark and grey the wind is turning to a gale.


You cannot see breeze nor wind but see the branches twist and bend


The gale it pulls at the oaks great root and smashes bower for centuries stood.


It goes from gale to wind to breeze as though it never visited here.  


All around in majesty the taught remains of the lost trees
Seven oaks will grow again for my  children's children to touch again.