I will listen to the song of the sea I will listen to the wind in the trees The lamentations of the world Torn to shreds The fear,the loss, the anger shared I will feel the warmth within these walls I will feel the love from those around Each flower that opens yellow or blue Will draw me closer to those far away Where night is dark and days are long Until the signs of spring shine forth And light returns with peace on earth.
The four winds blow, Mustering yet more strength In rallying war cry Powerful and Strong Sweeping over bent grass Combing and creasing the hill Into ripples of spun icing; Trees are rocked and spun in Forceful gyrations prizing Naked branches apart. Building and retreating in monumental fashion Relentless in accomplishment. Refusing to abate. All through the night To the cold blue-grey And a view.
debris cast asunder strewn across the green a lonely battlefield
Sometimes there is a song in the morning Of blackbird or wren, A flit through the hedge, Often unseen Though shrill the call; Or thrush In rhythm breaking a shell, Driving a rivet into a stone. Lamenting all today, The world spins darker The tune is changed; The song replaced by constant roar Of pounding wind, Forceful and strong, Whistling through any Gap unseen, A broken tune Of slate against stone Driving the rain to a different rhythm To the one in my heart.
I touch the walls of the ancient room, And feel the breath from another age. From here I glimpse the transient silvered moon; I trance dark clouds amidst storm -filled rage. The wind it thunders, though unrestrained; These walls of stories and secrets kept In silence resolute unexplained, If only they awoke instead of slept. What stories are wrought which they could reveal? What hidden whispers might be heard ? I feel them shudder absorb the feel, The storm abates with those memories blurred.
Most winter mornings The cold blue light gives way to lightening skies Most winter mornings the respite comes This winter morning light flickers Before extinguishing Through a patchwork sky In flickering array Cloud studded and ever moving Landscape of grey Building and growing Swelling to fill the wideness of Big skies Fingers of spent wind Clawing the branches of tired trees Stark is the warning of more to come Gusts exceeding 50mph Will rise to 90 Foreboding words To brace and heed. Birds are silent Senses sharp.
With pulsating rain The strengthening wind is drawn through The blackest of nights; The mist swirls ribbons Like the jet stream trail And the windows rattle; Droplets course down the blackened panes in little streams Pooling on the ledge As the latch lifts and falls And curtains move in oscillating rhythm While heavy slates lift and drop Making the whole house strain Defining its age of ancient years.