By a margin of sedge and great reed mace,
before a lake of turbulent cloud,
from galleons of full-sail and bluster
comes a broadside of bullying sound.
As they flinch to the pain of the lightning,
as they shreik to the tear of the air,
the beech lose their grip on the chalklands,
but the oaks stand firm against fear.
The dogs of the storm are unslipped,
day baying for the dying of light,
for freedom from torpor and tameness,
for the fresh, brute danger of night.