Sunday, 21 February 2016


Wild Days

On these wild days, when leaves
pile up beside the door,
tired earth itself
lets out a heartfelt roar,
as the sun, with corpse-pale face,
is sucked down out of sight
and beneath a windswept veil
extinguishes its light:
the wild days’ wilder night.

The wind does not begrudge the trees
their groaning, sighing song
but, like a martinet, insists
the tune is his alone
which, played on writhing willow
and steadfast, stalwart beech,
becomes an eerie chorus
that builds into a screech:
the wind’s unholy speech.

Vast wreaths of rooks rise from bare trees
and hang upon the sky,
darkening the darkening
while each imperious cry
creates a raucous chorus
that drowns out all dissent
and only the wind can disagree,
express its discontent:
the wild days’ wild lament.

No comments: