All night I’ve heard <br />in complex dreams and wakeful moments, <br />the sea’s undifferentiated roar: <br />a millrace powered by <br />the clouded face of the autumn moon, <br />the wind rising to wail in warning, <br />tossing the fingers of the olive trees <br />till they lose hold of fruit <br />that should be gathered in by human hands, <br />and tearing at the sandy surfaces of cliffs and crags, <br />scouring the land, without love. <br /> <br />But in the morning, <br />under the sun’s pale disc, <br />the sea falls back. <br />Assault’s diverted from the patient rocks, <br />the white-tipped waves ride off, <br />and the gale has passed.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/italian-collection-the-gale/
