Beach Comber Poem by Dale Mullock

In the old days I turned your windmills to make your flour,
now I turn them and give you some of my power.
Sweeping across the sand, soil and stone,
anger me and I may shake your home,
in hurricanes and tornados I show my might,
as lightning brightens up the night,
I kiss the clouds and they cry their tears.
Through the dales I call my name but no one hears,
down your chimney I whistle my tune,
blowing your papers around the room,
sometimes I am cold, creating a drafty chill,
by creeping under your door or cracks in the windowsill.

In the sky I do walk, whisper and whirl,
even if my path does twist, turn and twirl.
I am stirring the air, blowing free,
so why do you always see me as an enemy,
I know I can howl like a freak,
but I can also softly brush your cheek,
I may seem so alive and I can almost die,
yet I always push the clouds through the sky.
I follow you on holiday, giving you salty sea air to taste,
and whip your hair wildly across your face,
the mighty oceans, rock and roll, I do teach,
so their waves slowly lap and comb the beach.