Wind

By Dave Goulder


Emerging from my cocoon

I try to stand against the blast, and hear

a train roaring through

very close, but there is no line here.

It is trees on the move.

As the gale hurtles through this no-stopping station,

I stare with watereyes

and see waves heaving, crashing back and fore

in constant turmoil, but 

it is the trees becoming an ocean.

Leafy tops driven eastwards, responding

to this force the only way they can,

giving in to demonic moving air.



A single limb, wrenched
free
from an old pine

becomes a missile, a long bullet

smashing into whatever

is in the way; house, car, soft tissue.

And above the tree line

a single sheet

Of corrugated iron scythes like a skua,

man height for long enough;

long enough to slice or strike,

or succumb to hard rock.



In towns and cities, wind and rain and snow

are an inconvenience, irritating, spoiling, slowing,

the speed of life, however,

in wild land these elements can control,

and wind is frightening.

This village is forty miles from the west coast

and yet in 2005 the destroyer with no name, 

ripped a track for itself

taking islands and villages and lives,

flattened forests like cornfields

just to reach here, and then

turn north, reduced in speed

to a mere 125 miles per hour.



But this little zephyr today, gusting
at 70 plus, can still cause concern with invisible trains

and wooded waves

and windblown debris raining

on the roof.

Time to retreat

back into the cocoon to take refuge

and pour a large one.