Anam Cara

THE PLEADING

All night long, and all through the white day,

The beat of the wind’s bulk against the house,

Pausing only for a breath, and then, again,

The rise and wail of its keening, as if I

Could come out into it, and answer

Its unbearable grief with some sweet name,

From which it could make an antiphon

To calm down its demented legion

Of breezes, or failing that, could I find

And release a granite rock, to open

A duct in the mountain, for it to enter

And search the underworld for itself.