She tells me every day what the elements
are going to inflict on us next. She believes
the television weathergirl is as true as Tarot
as all-seeing as Buddha, as right as rain.
Hailstones bigger than cricket balls
do not faze her; they were predetermined
on the 6 o’clock news. As long as they strike
elsewhere and do not treat low pressure cells
as roundabouts. Fast as lightning
she pulls curtains tight against
driving rain, the rumble of thunder
like b-double wheels on freeways.
Wind hypnotises. The trees thrashing around
in her back yard look more like whirling
dervishes than mad devils ready to pounce
on the nearest house. Other people suffer
dismembered roofs or flattened cars.
She is safe. It only happens on television.
No need to be religious. Just stay indoors
watch those elements do their darndest.