Daybreak

A red sun's sailing in. The eastern sky
is bleeding and above the angry sea
the storm clouds gather. In the leafless wood

stiff branches creak before the rising wind
that shifts the yellow leaves in rustling drifts
as treetops bend and a thin moaning comes

from hills and chimneys. When I round the house
the full blast nearly makes me lose my hold;
far out across the field the wooden gate,

loose on its hinges, beats a sharp tattoo
against the post. Their feathers all awry,
a dirty batch of rooks comes whirling by

against a sky that won't get light today –
the first cold rain comes lashing at my face
and this year's colours are all blown away.