The window open. Howling wind
that moves great trees like dancing ghosts
which sway their feathery, green and finned
inhuman hand which waves and boasts
its godlike strength which crashes rocks
and smashes cliffs and fences' posts
of houses owned by apes. It mocks
to think their global lordship's safety's not in guns or locks.

I see through glass a great green tree
with hand-like leaves with claw-like ends,
who seem to point as though at me,
a human being, who yet not mends
his greedy deadly sins, which sends
a land of men to war, to fight
to kill the man who walks, who wends
across the land to take by might
the thing he owns by painful birth- the ancient right.

An attempt at a Spenserian

I pick the bat up swinging at a ball
whose chord of safety snaps like human skin.
The little head jumps out across the wall
and lands inside a dark red painted tin.
Away from mother- scared, the faith is thin.
The swingball pole has no more ball to bear.
The game is lost- there's no-one who can win,
but that is not the greatest single care,
for now to jump across the neighbours' fence we dare.