A Meander Morning Poem by Adrian Flett

The wind brings in a front
sounding out the tall pines.
Branches sway, needles whisper, whistle,
sometimes even whine
and sigh in the wind's rhythm.
Below, I wish to be
up in that rarefied zone
but the wind doesn't stoop to me,
instead a cast cone lies grenade-like
helical patterns trace its ovality
though spiky and stark; a flower.
The sky a pale smoky blue at the horizon
as straw-coloured grass waits,
records dew print evidence of my passing.
It's patient - knows Spring is near.