The Wuthering
Torrents overflow a rocking sky.
The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges
dark are the claws of calamity.
Small birds are blown sideways into scant
bone-twisted trees, crooked branches spear each other.
The land is harried by low and high fishtailing winds,
the tufted earth blown beyond its roots.
In the valley, village cats crouch; dogs snap the air
their mouths as full as storm-drains.
A banshee wails in our hearts
while we listen to its silent screams.
We are nothing but torrid echo’s run through
by stampeding feather-light frights,
guttering lights that seek a less bruising way
to escape grip of this blustering day.
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