The hour is late and he is gone for good,
at last. I welcome the howling storm this night
as the furious wind is blowing past our safe cottage.
The shadow cast by the oil lamp holds no threat
as the rain's percussion is hard and fast.
Our home's the haven we craved at last.
Lightning's our trumpet; each strike proclaims
to all nature that we are saved.
My good dogs were restless, asked questions
with their round brown eyes. When I spoke,
they settled, stretched, laid down their heads.
From the hearth, the fire, far more generous
then he'd allow, warms our spirits.
My tabby cat, in thrall to the flames,
knows his work-boots will not kick tonight.
We four, two dogs, one cat, and I,
have had sweet comfort, ease,
since the moment I cried,
"The deed is done
and he is bound for hell at last,"
and still, the screaming wind
is blowing past.