Wet almond-trees, in the rain,
Like iron sticking grimly out of earth ;
Black almond trunks, in the rain,
Like iron implements twisted, hideous, out of the earth,
Out of the deep, soft fledge of Sicilian winter-green,
Almond trunks curving blackly, iron-dark, climbing the slopes.
Almond-tree, beneath the terrace rail,
Black, rusted, iron trunk,
You have welded your thin stems finer,
Like steel, like sensitive steel in the air,
Grey, lavender, sensitive steel, curving thinly and brittly up in a parabola.
What are you doing in the December rain ?
Have you a strange electric sensitiveness in your steel tips ?
Do you feel the air for electric influences
Like some strange magnetic apparatus ?
Do you take in messages, in some strange code,
From heaven’s wolfish, wandering electricity, that prowls so constantly round Etna ?
Do you take the whisper of sulphur from the air ?
Do you hear the chemical accents of the sun ?
Do you telephone the roar of the waters over the earth ?
And from all this, do you make calculations ?
Sicily, December’s Sicily in a mass of rain
With iron branching blackly, rusted like old, twisted implements
And brandishing and stooping over earth’s wintry fledge, climbing the slopes
Of uneatable soft green !