The Tide
In the morning darkness,
high on the hill tops
in the storming tide
of wind,
the high elms
bend
and twist,
in the greatening
gusts
of a rising gale,
and above,
in a handful
of black
and wings
a throw of cries
a great flock
of shadows
slew,
slip
and fall,
as rooks in spits
and spirits,
peel and spin
against the invisible
darkness,
against
the broken sky.
And far below,
far along
the sunken lanes,
and through
the tossing rage
of hedges,
the first dawn
falls in a flurry
and flood,
a tumble of sticks
and leaves.
and rides.
For the moon,
above,
has been blown
over-tilting
the sinking earth,
wrecking the skies,
sending clouds,
left chasing
in the empty calls,
of willful winds,
And there
across the winter darkness,
and still further
the villages
and towns
crouch
and shelter,
hidden,
blinded,
from the blasts
of early morning rain.
Engulfed,
by the topsy-turvy
truth of tides.
the waves
of rain,
beat
in thunders
across
the lowland plain,
with howls
and shrieks
of complaints,
the telegraph wires
whine and whinny,
in horses cries
to shout again
will the morning
ever rise?
And in the end
against the quaking,
the rattling earth,
the embattled rage,
of dawning skies,
the quickening fists
of trees,
behind the wall
of hills and darkness,
the sun struggles
to rise and lift,
the dawn
and heave,
for there
in mud
and swollen stream
returning river,
and emptying sea
the storm does blow,
lost to me.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
