Wind

Death by noise.
Unable to find Peace
the whales run aground.
My heart breaks.


Lost words, Heartwood,
Taproot.
Rain makes the Earth solid not crumbly,
allowing roots to get a sure hold.
Breath our black sludge through your feet.
Breath out black smoke through your chest.
A cock’s crow blows in on the wind.


Gust upon gust
blustering, bustering.
billowing, tusselling.
A great wave,
washing-machining, crashing, foaming.
The Jasmine tendrils creeping, climbing, intertwining
tossed around wildly.
Howling, wailing, surround sound.

The Peace Rose, saved from war torn France, is rocked violently
flung from side to side without mercy,
I wonder will it’s single flower survive?
It’s tender petals, leaves and stem
bend and yield
and it remains intact against the odds.
But then who sets the odds?

The alchemilla mollis ruffles her petticoats,
waves move through the hedge.
The forecast predicts it will get stronger yet.
“Most unusual at this time of year,
with everything in full leaf”,
expect casualties.
A magpie battles by.

I notice my reflection down below in the rear windscreen of a car,
a ghost peering out of the top window,
from where I sit watching the world .
And then my breath is whipped away,
the rose is gone.

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