October 16th
The wind whines in the gratings. It is a mean cur
Leaping and baying at the last of the trees. This night it pulls on a leash, still By some harsh hand held between towering seas And we pray again, as we prayed under a Scorpio Moon (Piteously, in vain) the tyrant fist Of air not follow its hound to scythe and flail In seven howling hours seven counties’ forest. Felled trees flake into humus; rooftops wrenched Break into powder and shard, a thin seam Laid down, pointing the future’s history. Will fear come up on the spade? Will their seers dream? Blood was not the storm’s quarry but only our sleep, Only our sleep, Lord; an amazing Hand Held our houses safe from cedar and oak. Only a few died, leaving a shattered land To greet us in the morning under the grinning sun, A lone light, and all our power gone. Powerless, we who had tamed the lightning. Stripped of all we had built our silly lives upon. |