In the wind from the sea
my house was a singing throat last night.
Bass drone in chimney flue and round the gable end
and those vibrating window panes,
thin wandering harmonics
between the doors and frames.

Percussion of unseen things
a-rolling and a-roiling in the world outside.
A troop of intermittent gallopers trampling through the dark  
musketry of rain upon the roof
cracking of wind’s whip.

Waking to the morning, exhausted from the listening
it is as if the wild hunt had past us gone
overrode us as we cowering sought for sleep
laid waste our garden’s order
broken down the daffodils and snowdrops
that we’d cherished as the harbingers of spring.
Kicked flowerpots and water cans around and flattened fences
made the hedges look as if they had been backwards dragged

Carefully I prised my front door open
pushed aside the debris that had been cast upon my threshold
but they had gone and all was calm
one robin in the silver birch sang clear and sweet and unconcerned
a film of salt, dried tears, upon the window’s glass.