A Poem a Day (561): The storm

 
The storm
 
They counted names in the early hours
of the storm as the rain screeched down,
read them from the Register,
while someone twisted Rosary beads.
It ripped right through.
 
Mud flowed, slid and spilled,
overcame everything in its wake,
a 20 mile-per-hour gush
of boulders, debris, mud and branches.
Every building sank beneath the tonnage,
roofs and structures swept away,
photos depicting a lifetime.
 
They counted names,
but not all were accounted for.
So they carved their names in wood,
so they would be remembered.
But we remembered them all.
Every single one.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 2, 2023