This is the third day of gales, hail and thunder. Spring is definitely on the way.
Tempest rocks the air and shreds the night,
While cold hail harrows the clinging darkness white,
And beneath our flimsy roofs of flying tiles,
No one sleeps.
Whining wind is full of sea-tossed ghosts,
We hear the breakers crash upon the shore
And listen for the seabirds’ scream
Until the dawn.
And when the earth rolls into ragged morning light,
Rain-rattled, shutters banging thunderclaps against the wall,
An embattled voice fights, sweet against the bitter wind,
The first brave notes.
Short phrases running rapid and unsure,
Picked out and tested over and again,
As grey light turns dull river-silver pale,
Blackbird is singing; spring shines through the rain.