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--chosen-work--
Force Nine
This beating wind
which rips the bottom out of clouds
thrashes boughs of willow trees
for hour on hour
leaves dead grey streets
clean-scoured as steel
with swinging lights high on elliptic wires
a lash of ice in every volleyed shower
An earthbound crow
is skulking by a wall when we
leave Dalton by the Don to climb
where roof tiles fall
in shell-bursts on the drives
and in our windscreen
dead leaves hurl as moths did once
or sparks blown glowing from the furnace fires