The mad March wind

There’s a mad March wind,
roaring around the eaves tonight,
testing the latch.
It shoulders the fence,
searching for gaps,
for an inch of spare
to get a grip and then to tear,
to splinter wood, or lift
a tile so brother rain
this gift can win and let the wet
come pouring in.

Meanwhile I sit in snug of night,
A book to hand in this warm, soft light.
But with each flicker of the mains
The wind another victory gains
Through skipped heartbeat and
anxious dread,
Drives home what oft escapes my
head, that for all our wit and
clever laws, the mad March wind
still gives us pause.