As the north wind howls past the pods
Once-white camper vans and caravans, sploshed with mud,
Huddle together for warmth behind “The Shop”.
Scattered around them like pieces of modern art
Starlight-starved telescopes shelter beneath heavy bags and sacks,
While awnings flap and crack like galleons’ sails
As the gale bends the trees.
This way then that way they sway,
Dancing beneath scudding clouds of charcoal grey,
Watched forlornly through the Warm Room’s windows
By those whose noses are not pressed against their phones,
Suffering the endless buffering
Of the drinkingstrawband WiFi,
Firing-up one weather App after another
Until they find one predicting clear skies
After dark. That one starry icon is all it takes
To light a spark of hope in their hearts
And send them back to their tents – laptops
recharged, power-pack LEDs shining green
Again – smiling.
(c) Stuart Atkinson 2016