Nocturne

I'm a sucker for clouds; they always remind me of Constable and English landscape painting.
So, because they just stand there and let me take pictures, I have plenty of pictures of clouds; some people have said: perhaps too many.  .  .

A poet whose work I have loved for a long time returns again tonight with this night poem.

NOCTURNE

That scraping of iron on iron when the wind

rises, what is it? Something the wind won't

quit with, but drags back and forth.

Sometimes faint, far, then suddenly, close, just

beyond the screened door, as if someone there

squats in the dark honing his wares against

my threshold. Half steel wire, half metal wing,

nothing and anything might make this noise

of saws and rasps, a creaking and groaning

of bone-growth, or body-death, marriages of rust,

or ore abraded. Tonight, something bows

that should not bend. Something stiffens that should

slide. Something, loose and not right,

rakes or forges itself all night.

Li-Young Lee 

from Rose, Kindle location 318 of 848