2016-10-15          Chris McDonnell

The tax-collector

A white, grey-black stain

swirls over the uneasy, tossed sea

tightening with each passing hour

till reaching landfall

it scavenges the shore,

weeps its way inland,

re-arranging shacks and shanties

into unrecognisable debris piles.

Rain,

mud,

splintered timber,

fallen power cables

loose, galvanised

roofing sheets,

all tossed by a wild, driven wind,

named for a Gospel writer.

Beneath it all, a helpless people

struggle with its demonic rage,

till morning.

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