Your voice is all that's heard,
at night in the upper lands
you batter at doors and rattle the caged
birds

But to fly with you in this night
would be insanity defined
just as to dance with you,
less refined

You roar and ring, ensnare my house
like a jealous lover, lusting for fire,
that stilled within, listening to you
with beating heart

I can't imagine what you do up there
in the dark hills, where my little
house sits, perched on a crag
waiting for you

To scoop up the valley in an elemental
tantrum, of flying twigs, swaying trunks
trees bent over like old men with canes
waving at you

And when you finally surge up that hill
and clasp the shrill tin roof that will
be singing of imminent calamity
will the wires break?

Will you leave enough to call me,
when this is all over, and your
channelling of the sea, rough as hell
is at dead calm?

And I can call you then, a breeze,
and no offence will be wafted at my door
no flotsam planted on the floor
no harm done?

And we'll call it quits till next year.