Then the rain bespattering through night, the winds roaring, in their willow voices, of that great train chuntering dark plains along the grey curve of morning, greening to lurid gloom;
and soaked the petaled patio floor and the iron chair (I wipe with kitchen-roll); while, through the din of wind and road, the blackbirds raise their clarion; and the air breathes seasoned, sweet and wet, salad fresh collandered Mm - a salt-tang too, skimmed over marshes...
A gutter drips.
But though everything's well soaked, rain takes a rain-check, holds off for grey dalliance that not a crack of blue might show beneath the blow that leans pine sleepers under sky-rims of iron-horses, whites the far waves, glimpsed at dune's wood-edge, savages budded hound's-tooth.
And there are tall pines, sagging in each others arms, at the limit of wrenched diagonals - cannot further fall while neighbors stand.
But as we go the power falls away, raged threat lulls back to mussing that the chaffinch sinters into, and the path at tree's edge - mostly mirror pools, reflecting greys of sky, white may blossoms, and our own booted stalks traversing.
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