a ninety first poem...'willow cry'

I went inside and there was darkness, I went back outside and there was darkness, and the moon was covered over, and the tall trees whispered in the night breeze, and there were no stars, and there were dark shapes, blacks and deep blues, but mostly there was a willow cry, and the more I listened, the more it came clear, until it seemed to be howling, but there was no moon, and no stars, and I couldn’t see or hear where it came from, and soon the tall trees seemed not to be whispering, and I had to put my hands over my ears because of the willow cry, and go back inside, and when I woke in the morning the fog lay low on the ground, and although I couldn’t see them, it felt like the hills had moved, and the branches of the trees were low too, and it seemed like the rain was setting in, and it came, and the ground became wet, and grey, and brown, and standing water filled the yard, and it was grey, and wet, and yet the willow cry came again, and I went out to the barn, and I sat under the leak where the rain comes in, and my face and hair became damp, and I raised my face upwards and the rain fell steadily on it, and there were river-lets running down my cold cheeks, and I felt rain down my neck, and inside my shirt, and I had my eyes closed, and then I opened them, and the rain became rigged like tears in them, and raindrops shuddered from my eyelashes, and I clasped my hands tight, and dug my nails in, and the willow cry was a shriek, and after perhaps an hour the leak stopped, and I had my head in my hands, and my arms on my knees, and my bare feet were numb with cold, and the willow cry was silent, and my chest heaved, and my shirt-sleeves clung to my slender arms, and hung heavy off my hollow shoulders.