© M M Beveridge – November 2017

The wind drives our weather and creates the good seasons and the bad and is always with us.

She waltzes the breeze with a tickle and tease
past maidens who dance in the late summer’s heat
and shimmers and glistens in streets as she listens
through devils who whirl in the dust at her feet.

On late autumn days she remembers the ways
she tends to and nurtures the vine and the crops
in ripe burdened furrows and deep buried burrows
and mellows the roots and the stalks and the tops.

In south winter gales when she howls and regales
the oceans that rise to her call and her whim,
she lashes and clatters with hail as she batters
the ships and the shore and the streams to the brim!

She curtsies the trees and she bends her fair knees
on shores that know only the wet and the dry
in far northern reaches, by corals and beaches,
caressing the seas and the sand and the sky.

She garners her strength and unleashing at length
tornado and cyclone and super cell storm
she holds up to ransom the trampled and handsome
without any fondness for birthright or form.

On far western plains she drives drought or the rains
and fetches the first of the fire and the flood
to good ground and weary, through towns packed or dreary,
while leaving a bounty as price for her blood.

But she doesn’t judge, doesn’t care or begrudge,
and cares not for sinner or saintly or sinned.
Capricious, seducing, indignant, inducing,
she ever in all ways is always the wind.