What do they hear in the storm
the birds in the swaying trees?
What tongue speaks to them from the clouds,
who watches, predator-patient in the light-flicker?
And what metaphor suggests itself to souls
that have never known a faulty fuse?
We watch the lashing boughs
bending and trembling, wind-whipped,
and worry about cables, damage, insurance,
the work of weeks among the plants wrecked.
House-boat creaks, timbers crack, rain seeps,
cats hide where the fearsome dark won’t find them,
but the child sleeps in her mother’s arms,
chicks too perhaps in their storm-tossed nests,
while soft-padded hunters prowl the rain shafts,
indifferent to the growling of the beast.