This storm over my roof
Is a fast moving beast, the gutters spill splashes.
Its black mass scatters fragments of trees
Whirlwinds of leaves, golden hearts in winter
Sloppy and shoveled into gurgling gutters
Into then, into then one foliage piece
To side-of-the-road and kick about the feet.
In some gap of window I know unseen
The wind is rowing and deepening in
I hear the screams of dozens of people;
Sixteen drowning souls of St. Lucia kicking
For a gulp of air or some prolonged existence
Down in the mud of the fast flowing earth
I hear the squelching flowing dead in my ear.
So overhead now is Thomas’s tail whipping
Across my country; this morning we raced from the west
In hopes of beating it before it had its best
When we rose, with the sun, it was clear and silent.
I even spied a wild hare leap through its track;
It shook off the dewy beads of sleep
That gathered in those fields and in my vision
Hazy, blurred, cold bed ridden, heavy lidded
Out green window into open fields, alone
There is a single standing hawthorn tree
And tell me, what should I choose to know?
The mud? The dead? The screaming souls?
The sprinting hare whisping through the open field?
That lonely old hawthorn tree and all its standing years?
Yes I simply do, because I must believe.
I must believe in what I see in front of me.