The glass has been falling all afternoon, And knowing better than the instrument What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of gray unrest is moving across the land, I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching Boughs strain against the sky
And think again, as often when the air Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting, How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction.
Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time, Not shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise, We can only close the shutters.
I draw the curtains as the sky goes black And set a match to candles sheathed in glass Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defence against the season; These are the things that we have learned to do Who live in troubled regions.
GLOSSARYGLOSSARY
[2] instrument: a barometer (which measures pressure) [7] Boughs: branches
[11] undiscerned: unseen; unrecognised [12] realm: kingdom; area [17] weatherglasses: barometers [23] sheathed: covered; encased [25] aperture: hole; gap
