Clouds over a Cottage

When an angel and a devil ride together

Out of the bright northwest, I look for weather.

Dark and yet luminous they clear the hill,

Locked softly, fiercely, flying and yet still.

The angel soars above, his wings gold-bordered,

His stone eyes closed, his marble curls disordered.

He turns his profile pure, immense and meek

To show the lavender hollow of his cheek.

With black cape flaring in a smoky scallop,

The devil, at a furious, faint gallop,

Crouched on his sallow haunches, looms beneath,

And brutally he bares his crooked teeth.

Running before the wind of their hard breathing,

I see how grassblades glare and trees are seething.

I'm in, just as flung wing and hurtled hoof

Crash down together on my tiny roof.