The Window Square

I was washing up last night
In my kitchen small and bright,
Scooping tea-leaves from the pot
Rinsing it with water hot,
Scrubbing down the wooden bench,
Red fingered like a kitchen-wench;
And as I wrung my mop out dry
I looked up at a square of sky;
(The window's just beside the sink).
The sky up there was black as ink,
And suddenly the wind's rough hands
Tore at a woven cloud's soft strands,
And thro' the murk of that wild night
Shone out the moon all slim and white—
Just for a magic moment shone
Then seemed to shrink and hurry on
Into a waiting, folding cloud,
While the great winds were shouting loud
And raging wildly down the skies,
Baulked by the clouds of their white prize.
Again the square of sky, ink-black,
So to my wringing turned I back,
Then put away the things washed up—
Fork, spoon and saucer, plate and cup—
My small bright fire, my small quiet room...
Outside, the tumult and the gloom.

M.L.N.