A Picture of Peace

White lily

Serenity is not the absence of wind,

But the assurance of an anchor.

Frosted Blades


Frosted blades scratch seamless sky,

angry to find no scars.

Serrated edge draws no blood,

nor sawing motion, vein;

Wind is no ally

when renewed rigour

results in naught.

Pain pitched at a hushed heaven

grows boomerang eyes;

the spy’s sabotage

skilfully dissects

along lines traced by rote.

Silvered cycle,

shameful circle,

drawn by frosted blades…


Engulfed by what the wind blew in,

she shudders in her sleep;

talons of the purest ice

carve memories so deep

they wrap her in a snowy grave,

where dreams become her days;

her heart cries foul, she prays for hope,

and waits for Summer’s rays.

Court is in Session

Downy heads,

forest of the venerable,

sit in judgement of our age.

Shaking quaking locks,

they shudder at the cruelty

of those designed for love.

Juried leaves flutter anxiously in  gossip –

“Did you hear that he …”

“She did what?…” 

and  trunks tremble with disbelief.

So much boldness

in the ways of deceit and faithlessness.

Wind mourns softly,

ruffling the feathers of the Elders

who silently pronounce

the humans in the dock


Wind Storm

Yesterday, you held your breath – the hot air closed in choking fist;

No oxygen was drawn to lung, the moisture clung, a humid mist

That, stationary, stalked so still that I thought you had died for good.

Now, you shriek in search of prey and seek for weak in frantic wood;

You toss the branches where you will.  Snapping trees bow at your feet,

 Offering penitential gifts; fences bend to you, complete

In deferential grovelling.  Even you are so afraid

Of whatever demon gives you chase,  you wail and gnash, emotion swayed.

You howl and whine at unseen foe and seek ingress at windowpane;

You beg and beat upon my door in frantic rush from field to lane.

Unnerving  banshee,  wicked gale, I feel you screaming in my chest;

O wind of powerful display,  please hold your breath – I need a rest!

The Wind is a Restless Soul Tonight

The wind is a restless soul tonight;

It rattles and shrieks in the tormented trees.

It teases the lamppost and makes her cry;

It chases the tail of the frantic breeze.

The panes and the lintels and frames are rattled;

They answer with sundry creaks and groans.

Shingles have all of their feelings flustered;

They vent their frustration in muffled moans.

Grasses and greenery join in the dance;

Cavorting and sighing, with frenzied wave,

They add to the motioned contortion; they prance,

And, all up in arms, with countenance grave

They heave, and they protest to bowing so low;

Creatures on edge, with tails fluffed on end

Slink around corners and sulk in moon’s glow,

Alarmed at the way in which all the world bends.

The wind is a restless soul tonight.

It enters my bedroom, infecting my rest;

My soul wanders with it, and, sensing its flight,

Allows it to rustle within my chest.