and i know that you'll find, love, i will possess your heart

The poet's name is Robin Robertson, and this is from the book A Painted Field. Reprinted here without permission, but I'm saying, if you like it, buy the book.

STATIC

The storm shakes out its sheets
against the darkening window:
the glass flinches under thrown hail.
Unhinged, the television slips its hold,
streams into black and white
then silence, as the lines go down.
Her postcards stir on the shelf, tip over;
the lights of Calais trip out one by one.

He cannot tell her
how the geese scull back at twilight,
how the lighthouse walks its beam
across the trenches of the sea.
He cannot tell her how the open night
swings like a door without her,
how he is the lock
and she is the key.

(Sarah Vedrody introduced me to this poem back in the late 90's. I wonder whatever happened to her...)