Wind

Autumn’s southerlies arrive –

Snapping towels on clotheslines, and

Sneaking under doors.

‘An ill wind’ some will say.

For me it’s a herald.

Reminding me of the the things

The winter season brings –

The season of no lawn mowing,

Porridge for breakfast,

Shorter days and longer, cosy nights.

Making fog when we speak and laugh,

As we walk rugged in scarves and jackets.

The sound of dry and fallen leaves

Rattled against my bedroom window,

As a promising wind gusts.

The weight of the kite,

As it struggles for freedom –

In winters’ brilliance.

Carving a virgin wave through frigid,

salt flavoured air –

On a rare winter swell.

Scudding clouds,

Frozen puddles, and

Red roses –

No sign of illness I say.

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