Cold wind out of the west scrubs the air in furious gales,
In howling bursts, in mean screeches, roars down the mountain
And whipsaws trees before spreading out his icy hand over the Med.
In the predawn sky neither clouds nor haze stand a chance.
Shivering, I wait for the Sun to rise and tell me when…
And He rises, weary, besieged but determined,
In a pale yellow sky, casting sharp and blue shadows
While the wind erases all scents,
Knocks nests, seeds and pine cones to the ground,
Strips camellias of their petals in puddles of red tears
And bends the grass in supplication for mercy.
Just a little while longer He said.