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.
