January Gales of the Hebrides


High winds tilt the tree tops now
and what is loose will tumble.
Low moods lean to feel the fire’s glow,

and grumble. Slates may slip,
as minds unhinge like rotted gates.
What's not flown far will rattle.

Lips numb. Salt rips.
We'll stare until the last wood burns,
blink, blank-eyed like cattle.

Seth Crook

If you have any comments on this poem,  Seth Crook would be pleased to hear from you.