WILD DAYS

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.