Strand, "Storm"

On the last night of our house arrest
a howling wind tore through the streets,
ripping down shutters, scattering roof tiles,
leaving behind a river of refuse. When the sun
rose over the marble gate, I could see the guards,
sluggish in the morning heat, desert their posts
and stagger toward the woods just out of town.
“Darling,” I said, “let’s go, the guards have left,
the place is a ruin.” But she was oblivious.
“You go,” she said, and she pulled up the sheet
to cover her eyes. I ran downstairs and called
for my horse. “To the sea,” I whispered, and off
we went and how quick we were, my horse and I,
riding over the fresh green fields, as if to our freedom.


Mark Strand

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