This Wind Poem by Ray Clune

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.