Friday Poem: 'Storm'

03 November 2017

By

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.

Selected Poems

Selected Poems

Gillian Clarke served as the National Poet for Wales from 2008-2016, has won the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry and the Wilfred Owen Association Poetry Award, and her poetry has been on British GCSE and A Level school curriculum for the past three decades. 

Selected Poems gathers together the best of Gillian Clarke's work so far in a single volume, bring together a collection of poems examining womanhood, art, music, Welsh History and landscapes. 

 

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