Friday, July the twenty-first.
Journey from Gatwick was easy enough.
Across the way from me were this couple,
mother and daughter, very English,
countryside types, the girl disabled,
it appeared. Kind people, cheerful,
but when we landed in Hamilton,
our aisle had to file out very slowly.
The airport was hot, so hot, so humid,
but Harry, meeting me, said, that’s Bermuda
in July. Thunderstorm tomorrow at three.
“Yeah, sure”, I said, but he said, No,
our climate is so, so predictable.
It gets hotter and hotter, humidity building,
for just three days or so, then .. Whop ..
a cloudburst and it’s cool and settled again.
Saturday the twenty-second.
Harry was right enough, the heat got desperate
and at ten to three, we dived into a spacious café,
everyone in sight did. We had a grandstand view,
the wide street emptying, then, as he’d said .. storm.
And it deluged and it hammered, across the empty street.
Then I looked and saw .. Oh hell, Harry, look.
The mother and daughter from the plane.
They can’t have been told, they were out in it.
The mother just stood by her girl, got her close to the wall,
steadied her, trying somehow to fend off the storm.
Then, into the sheet of rain which even our eyes
could barely penetrate, ran three waiters,
racing across from the café, gathering in a bunch,
a shield, helped keep the daughter steady.
Five minutes and the storm had gone.
They led them back, the mother, the daughter,
to the café, gave them a chance to dry, got them tea.
As is traditional with English country people,
buttered toast and tea.
