This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the
Floundering black astride and blinding wet Till day rose; then under an orange
The hills had new places, and wind
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far
The coal-house door.
Once I looked up -Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly.
The house Rang like some fine green goblet in the
That any second would shatter it.
Now
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other.
We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
