After a Storm

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

Morning, the storm is blowing itself out,
now it breathes like a man
too late to catch a bus taking him to work.
Spring, green leaves torn off trees whisper indignantly in corners,
this shouldn’t happen to them:
we are not autumn leaves they seem say.
Soldiers, caught up in a war not of their making,
dying on a battlefield far away from the mother tree.

Sparrows bunkered down under old roof tiles
are ready to finish building their nests,
lay eggs, catch insects and get on with life.
The storm is now a zephyr,
in the forest trees occasionally tremble
as remembering a bad dream,
dogs come out of barns;
sleep still in eyes, wagging tails
pleased to be alive!
And there is the sun chasing clouds away.