Sophie Sawyer

Whistles Of The Wind - Poem by Sophie Sawyer

As the sea slept under the sinking night,
Her heart beating the waves of water,
Thousands of children lay in straw,
Drowsily swinging in the breeze above her.
A small breath of the mighty ocean
Whistles through the basket gaps,
Keeping eye over the silent dreamers
And giving all the care it has.
A little song there, a tiny blow here:
No more than a whisper to balance the weights.
Not a whiff out of place, no extra chords:
Such a system can’t afford those kinds of mistakes.

But as the wind floated lazily
On the stream of a breeze,
One child toppled over
And by the sea he was seized.
Words cannot describe
Such terrifying screams
Of an infant so innocent
Interrupted from his dreams.
In panic, in shock,
The wind darted ahead
But his movements so sudden
Shook all the others’ beds!
Baby by baby they overturned
Into the beating of the waves!
Shrieks and shrieks multiplying
Into a dark, chaotic blaze!
His stomach over churned,
His mind going blurry,
The wind began snatching
The children in a hurry.
He thrusted them onto his back,
Hearts overflowing with terror.
Oh, how he begged for a force
To make this trauma feel better.

A thousand babies on his tail,
His body whistling parallel to the sea,
Began a tune knitted with the air
Which flowed harmoniously with the breeze.
Though it pierced the air,
It ran smoothly through
Like a light song through a thick ear,
It silently blew.
Swallowing their terror,
The children began to hum
Along with the whistles of the wind
As they flew toward the waking sun.
In a sigh of relief,
He settled along a draft above the sea
And he asked if, to their mother,
The babies wanted to be.
But the children still were humming.
They were even adding words.
These strangers of the world
Were not interested in their return.
“So, is this it? ” he mused
“They leave their beds behind? ”
So, the wind had thought maybe
It was now morning time.
Their mother breaks waves slowly
On top of the sand.
And she sends her love to her children
Flying above strange lands.
And so, her beatings are slow now,
And her baskets are still bare,
For her children now ride along
Those streamlines in the air.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, August 8, 2010

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