what are you saying,
through our cities, suburban buildings,
rushing through open windows,
a whistling, howling elder,
telling us to look up and all around.
you, who bends the mighty trees,
rustling their leaves.
you, who blows sand,
against our skin,
in case we begrudge,
our seaside blessings.
you, who shove gusts,
through narrow paths,
pushing us back, reminding us,
how small we are,
how fragile,
wee bodies that can fall apart.
you’re generous too, we must agree,
offering us a cool breeze,
on a walk, cycle or jog.
a refreshment from weariness,
that helps us keep going,
when all we want to do,
is stop.
you sweep fallen leaves across our path,
serving notice,
all things come to an end.
and we must,
each and everyone,
prepare for rebirth,
the chance of a cyclical mend.
what do you want us to see, o’mighty winds,
the wretched encroachment of our modern ways,
across your green hills or brown dunes,
across and within your blue waves.
you whisper and shout,
I hear you inside and out
while here,
blinded by screens.
you call me, you call us,
loud as can be,
to sit with our maker,
in silent reverence,
amongst the holy pollen and weeds.