The Gale
THE GALE
The gale twists the grass double,
Pounds the oaktree with its fists,
Shredding the autumn hedge,
Shrieking through cedar shakes,
Howling around old ruins
Where window shutters chatter in fear.
We heave against it uncertainly,
Waiting for the white balm of fog.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2015
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