Familiar Perhaps?

Ferocious, combative and, as usual, uninvited

The Witch-Wind bustles into my

Pale world of blue, iron-flat skies.

She is familiar, perhaps, but unexpected:

Travelling far and alcohol fast, whim-bent,

From the Marsh of Short, Black Sleep,

Putting to flight fright-eyed silver birds

From dreams of folded, twisted fields;

Shaking dragon-boned thoughts –

Jumbled and unpolished –

From pulled-thin, flamenco layers

Of sun-treated, rag-edged clouds.

How can I hold any hate for

Such awesome, wicked beauty

Without writing?