In the middle of this night
Dense winds paw the trees
That sing like prisoners
Whipped branches tap the windows
Lift and splinter slates
As if demanding entry
The broken Norman tower
Sinks slowly back to sand
The sea gulls wheel like vultures
A house proud hunch backed mole
Steers a careful tunnel
Between the upright gravestones
Tall fields of wheat
Buck like giddy seas
The farmer counts black sheep
A tiny dust grey moth
Whirls against the light bulb
The wind beats back the silence
Buffeting the locked doors
The storms last hammer thrust
Slams back upon itself
Shimmering the still air
Dawn nudges the grey horizen
Softly into view
A fragile splendour stirs
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
August 1st. 1968, Market Raisen.
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