The Storm

I lie awake, hearing the wind Winter, that coils in the breast of night Glides in from the fields, Eerie sounds through window sills When night, soon perishes into dawn A morning, slender and pale Still dark with shadowed swill Reveals such hapless sight The wretched carpet, rubble and plight Like broken wings from dark of night Finds limb and bough mere ghosts Of trees, battered, forsaken By violent rage of night