In the Micey House...A Poem

In the dank and micey house, the lonely, drab and mousey spouse,

umber clad in grey attire, huddles near a waning fire

blighted by an endless storm in torrential, raging form;

shouting rain and whining wind, hail's appalling, pounding din,

splintered crash of failing trees, falling calloused to her knees,

begs in vain appeal for peaceful solitude.

Blatant combat fierce outside, equals tumult stirred inside;

she struggles for an unknown way, in troubled, stormy interplay,

dark on black emotion clouded, unrelieved by any notion,

rich in portent, potent calling, raven, hawk and sparrow falling

through the thick and blasted night; wings in conflict more than flight;

earth and mousey spouse in grim disquietude.

Copyright by Don Gray