“On a Child’s Nightly Invasion” by John Grey

The wind invades
like a bunch of hooligans,
door and window no safer
than the throttled oaks,
ravaged pines;
it's all frail barricades to the
mischief in the air,
silhouettes, fruit trees,
curtains, trash can lids-
blown aside as if they're nothing;
but the horizon, calm,
the mountains, solid,
and that crimson-streaked yellow,
flag of one more day
making its getaway
to the other side of the earth;
nearer, dark,
another heartless mob,
the sky is bedroom,
the forest is ten thousand
frightened children,
and the wind dies down of course,
but not because of mumbled prayer,
its work is done:
blow in devils, blow in fright,
blow in cupboard monster,
blow in creature underneath the bed;
yes, the late hours
are the wind incarnate.