Storm Eowyn has passed hard by, and in
The park, the wrecks of trees, shipwrecked,
Are shattered
On the unsuspecting land, that wears
Disguise as turf-clad shore, and battered
Bones left high and dry, by unforgiving
Tides of wind.

Beyond, soft lines of hills bookended still:
St Mary's spires and old school towers,
And if the storm had shifted them, then only
They could tell; now pointing at the carefree sky,
That has forgotten every grievous
Gust, just resting lightly, blush with pink
On weathered yet forgiving hills.