The Wild Wind Poem by Angela Wybrow

For the time of year, the weather is mild,
But the raging wind is running wild.
The rain has stopped, and now there’s sun,
But the wild wind is very far from done.

Bins are upended – their contents spilled.
Weeping willows wave their long tendrils.
A garden fence rocks dangerously to and fro;
A sudden gust comes along, and over it goes.

By a cottage doorway, wind-chimes dangle;
Caught by the wind, they now joyously jangle.
With such brutal force, I am blown along;
Helped on my way, by the wind, so strong.

Trees take a battering; some have broken boughs.
The wild wind lets out one long, horrendous howl.
Across the ground, crinkled leaves skip and skitter,
As do pieces of paper, crisp packets, and other litter.

The clothes on my washing-line, are, very soon, dry;
They are securely pegged, so that, away, they don’t fly.
By the wild wind, an open gate is slammed, firmly shut.
On the radio, there are numerous reports of power cuts.

The sky is a mixture of dull grey and bright blue;
The weather is undecided on what it wants to do.
By the time evening arrives, the wind has died down;
It gives one last wave, and with that, it slowly drowns.