A Friday Poem by Gillian Clarke.

The cat lies low, too scared
to cross the garden.

For two days we are bowed
by a whiplash of hurricane.

The hill’s a wind-harp.
Our bones are flutes of ice.

The heart drums in its small room
and the river rattles its pebbles.

Thistlefields are comb and paper
whisperings of syllable and bone

till no word’s left
but thud and rumble of

something with hooves or wheel
something breathing too hard.