This Wind Poem by James Smith

Before this wind our senses lay
Flat and vunerable, forgetfull,
Our memories clean and tidy, thoughts marshalled
Lives mostly spruced up.
Now this wind has opened us,
Has moved into it's dominant.
It's prying curiosity seeks out our wounds.

Insistant, purposeful, it gnaws in rooms
Left empty by it's sweeping.
A wind which holds us pinned in our chairs
With the words of yesterday's books.
Activity's a memory and things retreat into themselves
And their absence dulls grey air made heavy
With waiting for the calm of it's passing.