Ernestine Northover (25th March 1943)
The wind whistles eerily, as the storm approaches,
it gradually encroaches, taking over
like some unscrupulous military machine,
giving way to no one,
just charging along at a fierce pace,
buffeting anything that gets in the way.
It cannot turn back, not once it's committed.
The oncoming storm whips it into swirls of forceful energy,
it is uncontrollable.
This wind brings with it a follower.
Battering and pounding on the rooftops,
lashing against the windows,
drumming a rhythmic revelry.
Here is a temper at full spate, caring not one iota
for the damage inflicted on man or beast or their environment.
Then suddenly, the sky starts to brighten,
the clouds part and the sun peeps through.
The storm is passing, and all is fresh and clean.
The rain's work is done,
and the elements are at peace once more.
© Ernestine Northover
Comments about this poem (Wind Song by Ernestine Northover )
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