Storm Isha, Storm Jocelyn... and the endless distraction of fallen trees
This week, poet and artist Frieda Hughes reflects on wind damage to her London home – and the way in which the weather can take us away from our normal lives with its own tumultuous urgency
After the Portimao racetrack I rode the Estoril circuit, where Ian Hutchinson
Crashed at the end of the start-finish straight at 180 miles an hour;
He walked away from motorcycle wreckage they could fit into a handbag.
Another week, another motorbike track-day stillage and home in winds
That almost dislodged the plane from the grip of the sky. The trees
Were thrashing themselves with their own branches, doing penance,
And the scraped-up, stacked-up accumulation of everything not done
While I was gone, festered unbecomingly. My two adopted huskies
Re-adopted me, attentive, as if unsure of another departure, and the owls
Re-established their indoor visits even as I prepared
For a pre-dawn diversion to London to witness the dissection
Of a fallen tree in four gardens, one of them mine.
So, there I was in East Dulwich on a Thursday, via Estoril,
Manchester and Mid-Wales since Sunday. I collected a vanload of logs
From the arboreal dismemberment of recumbent eucalyptus
And walked Lordship Lane for a coffee, with the stink of fox
So strong that it brought my father to mind for a moment.
I look at my life and wonder at the obstacles and events
That distract and dissemble, so that painting and writing
Are further off than a plane flight, and this poem is a life-raft.