Gales of the Hebrides
High winds tilt the tree tops now
and what is loose will tumble.
Low moods lean to feel the fire’s glow,
and grumble. Slates may slip,
as minds unhinge like rotted gates.
What's not flown far will rattle.
Lips numb. Salt rips.
We'll stare until the last wood burns,
blink, blank-eyed like cattle.
If you have any comments on this poem, Seth Crook would be
pleased to hear from you.