Shall I compare you to the winds that howl?
To downpours that make every step a chore?
I’d illustrate the thunderstorms that prowl,
And twisters flinging dust around and more.
When held against the misery you bring
The metaphor of weather’s pretty tame
There’s no umbrella of which we could sing
To stop you putting avalanche to shame
They say that no disaster’s truly done
Until the aftermath is all put right
Our clean-up, mate, has only just begun
To undo all your damage done last night.
I will not speak your name, or see your face
You cannot ever get back my good grace.
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Every year in April I do a new sonnet, building up (wearing down?) my resistance a poem at a time...
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