The storm

The autumn trees begin to gape,
Great holes torn in their golden cape.
They groan to the wind and ask it why
Their leaves should scatter to the sky
Or caught in the headlights on the road
Scuttle along like frightened voles.


Fleetingly beyond all this
We spy a white and angry sea
Fighting the pebble shore
And frothing in frustration
At the obdurate stones.

"No time to be abroad"
Echoes from the past,
But inside the car is another world
where soft music plays
into the climate controlled silence.

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