The day was black, and so was the weather forecast. The agitated weather birds were flying all around Scotland issuing stark warnings, crying out as they passed overhead that Storm Éowyn was on the way to wreak havoc in the more densely populated regions of the country on Friday.
Algy was never quite sure how accurate their forecast was likely to be, but as they had issued a rare "danger to fluffy birds" alert for the area not all that far south of Algy's home, he decided to take no chances.
For the moment, however, nothing very unusual was happening: it was just dark, windy and wet, but that was entirely unremarkable in the wild west Highlands in January. So before he retreated to a place of safety to sit out the storm, Algy decided to recite a long poem for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, as he might not have another chance for a day or two…
Hopping up into an elder bush, Algy began to repeat an old poem about a storm at sea. As he lived on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, Algy was always especially concerned for the folk out at sea when the wind and the waves became really angry, and although the poem was written hundreds of years ago, and the construction of ships had changed considerably since that time, he knew that seafarers were still at very considerable risk in storm force conditions…
The south and west winds joined, and, as they blew, Waves like a rolling trench before them threw. Sooner than you read this line, did the gale, Like shot, not feared till felt, our sails assail; And what at first was called a gust, the same Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name. Jonas, I pity thee, and curse those men, Who when the storm raged most, did wake thee then; Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil All offices of death, except to kill. But when I waked, I saw, that I saw not. I, and the sun, which should teach me had forgot East, west, day, night, and I could only say, If the world had lasted, now it had been day. Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all Could none by his right name, but thunder call: Lightning was all our light, and it rained more Than if the sun had drunk the sea before. Some coffined in their cabins lie, equally Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must die. And as sin-burdened souls from graves will creep, At the last day, some forth their cabins peep: And tremblingly ask what news, and do hear so, Like jealous husbands, what they would not know.
[Algy is reciting part of the long poem The Storm by the late 16th/early 17th English poet John Donne, in a modern English version.]
