Seeing The Wind On Salisbury Hill Poem by Cynthia Passmore

The wind leans against tall blades of grass
while cornflowers struggle in blue hue to touch the sky.
They grasp at air that skirts the tips of yellowed hay
that lick at clouds.

Stone walls fastened hard to ground by grapevine run long,
brushing boundary lines that separate field from meadow
while roofs of barns punch holes in the landscape,
wind bent and salted gray.

Soft sanded footpaths where grass fights hard against souls
curl back against themselves, trying to heal the invasion of time
that slips through, even here
where it is possible to see the wind.