The wind howled like a banshee that terrible day
It had argued with everything it left in its wake
It whipped up the sea to a thick grey mist
Through the windows the view was dark and opaque.
And over the crash of the huge black waves
Screaming yet so faint, their voices pathetic
As they slowly succumbed to the cold Irish Sea
In a storm that had raged with power kinetic.
And the gathering orca had much to enjoy
As they filled up their bellies from the dead
While the sharks in the shipping line boardroom
Sought to rip off the families instead.
One hundred and forty three souls were lost
Neither ship nor a person survived
But it’s said in a storm in the cold Irish Sea
You can hear the last calls that were cried.
©Joe Wilson – The powerful wind…2018