This wind it howls, this wind it moans,
A mournful eerie sound.
This wind gathers fallen autumnal leaves,
Just to dash them to the ground.
This wind makes fools of washing lines,
On its travels throughout the nation.
This wind plays with all the locomotives,
Huddled at St.Pancras railway station.
This wind buffets and shakes the aeroplanes,
As they seek a calmer, foreign sky.
This wind will grow tired soon enough,
Then it will surely die.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Daydreaming and looking out of the window, when the wind picked up.
It was Howling and Moaning through the trees outside.
The ideas in the poem have been edited many times since then.
I do not think this poem has finished with me just yet, although I am happiest with this version at the moment.
Comments about this poem (This Wind by Ray Clune )
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