Taken this time juxtaposing Eleanor Farjeon's great hymn to creation's dawn against the backdrop of one the the great storms climate change has unleashed on our world, and drawing on my own memories of the night.
Morning has Broken: After the Storm
Diary Entry — The Night of the Great Storm
“Morning has broken… like the first morning.” I write those words now, though when the storm first rose at dusk, I doubted I would ever see another dawn. For the storm was on.
That Great Storm was upon us as the long night began and increased throughout the night. In the early hours just past midnight, winds reached over 110 miles per hour, a force that felt less like weather and more like a living creature battering the world. The windows shuddered in their frames, each gust a fist against the glass. I could feel the walls vibrating with the gusts of wind. Slates tore from the roof and crashed down like iron hail. The whole building shook, trembling as though it feared what the night might bring. I could imagine colossal speed of the storm as it came bearing down on us.
I lit a single candle. Its flame bent sideways in the draughts, a fragile thing, yet stubborn. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,”, I whispered, not as a hymn but as a hope. If morning came, I would praise it indeed.
Hours passed. The storm roared like a creature circling the house, searching for a way in. Sleep was impossible. I sat by the computer, watching the reports unfold in real time. Police warnings. Trees down. Damage to roofs. Fences buckled and broken. Here I could watch, looking at the world being torn apart. The storm colour was an angry red on the weather radar.
I thought of the hymn’s blackbird, singing “like the first bird,” singing at creation’s dawn. Tonight no bird sang. No creature dared. The world belonged only to the wind. This was the uncreation of our world.
Midnight had long gone, and the night wore one. Time had no meaning in the storm’s grip. I felt the hours only as a tightening in my chest, a longing for stillness. The candle guttered low. I feared the roof might lift away entirely. I feared the windows might burst inward. I feared, most of all, that the night would never end. But storms, even great ones, cannot hold the world forever.
Somewhere around four, the wind began to falter. Not stop, just hesitate. The house no longer trembled with every gust. The rain softened from furious sheets to scattered drops. I dared to stand, dared to look out through the warped glass.
A faint grey touched the horizon. The promise of dawn. By five, the storm had spent itself. The sky was bruised and torn, but no longer raging. Dawn crept in shyly, as though afraid to disturb the wreckage. And then, slowly, gently, the first true light broke over the ruined garden, over the fallen trees, over the scattered slates, the broken fencing, as if mighty giants had been trampling through our world, leaving wreckage where their feet trod, and incompleteness where their feet passed.
“Praise for the morning… fresh from the world.” I said it aloud this time. The storm is over. The day has begun. And despite the wreckage, I heard the blackbird start to sing once more. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning”. We have survived.
Morning has Broken: After the Storm
Diary Entry — The Night of the Great Storm
“Morning has broken… like the first morning.” I write those words now, though when the storm first rose at dusk, I doubted I would ever see another dawn. For the storm was on.
That Great Storm was upon us as the long night began and increased throughout the night. In the early hours just past midnight, winds reached over 110 miles per hour, a force that felt less like weather and more like a living creature battering the world. The windows shuddered in their frames, each gust a fist against the glass. I could feel the walls vibrating with the gusts of wind. Slates tore from the roof and crashed down like iron hail. The whole building shook, trembling as though it feared what the night might bring. I could imagine colossal speed of the storm as it came bearing down on us.
I lit a single candle. Its flame bent sideways in the draughts, a fragile thing, yet stubborn. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,”, I whispered, not as a hymn but as a hope. If morning came, I would praise it indeed.
Hours passed. The storm roared like a creature circling the house, searching for a way in. Sleep was impossible. I sat by the computer, watching the reports unfold in real time. Police warnings. Trees down. Damage to roofs. Fences buckled and broken. Here I could watch, looking at the world being torn apart. The storm colour was an angry red on the weather radar.
I thought of the hymn’s blackbird, singing “like the first bird,” singing at creation’s dawn. Tonight no bird sang. No creature dared. The world belonged only to the wind. This was the uncreation of our world.
Midnight had long gone, and the night wore one. Time had no meaning in the storm’s grip. I felt the hours only as a tightening in my chest, a longing for stillness. The candle guttered low. I feared the roof might lift away entirely. I feared the windows might burst inward. I feared, most of all, that the night would never end. But storms, even great ones, cannot hold the world forever.
Somewhere around four, the wind began to falter. Not stop, just hesitate. The house no longer trembled with every gust. The rain softened from furious sheets to scattered drops. I dared to stand, dared to look out through the warped glass.
A faint grey touched the horizon. The promise of dawn. By five, the storm had spent itself. The sky was bruised and torn, but no longer raging. Dawn crept in shyly, as though afraid to disturb the wreckage. And then, slowly, gently, the first true light broke over the ruined garden, over the fallen trees, over the scattered slates, the broken fencing, as if mighty giants had been trampling through our world, leaving wreckage where their feet trod, and incompleteness where their feet passed.
“Praise for the morning… fresh from the world.” I said it aloud this time. The storm is over. The day has begun. And despite the wreckage, I heard the blackbird start to sing once more. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning”. We have survived.
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