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