Well Versed In The Weather

Ten thousand tattered tots
Ran before the gale
Unseen by myriad eyes
Those who vaguely knew their father.
Each of the ragged band
Cried for their orphaned siblings
Hoping for alms to feed their souls.
Around the corner
Atop the sloping roofs
They altered their course to the heavens
Ever moaning
Ever groaning
Over the sleeping village.
A small child awoke
And cried softly
In fear of the unceasing wail.
A gentle word
Allaying the fear
And sleepy eyes
Again closed.