From apathetic to energetic, the icy gusts came thick and fast. The storm was a febrile thing, a sky-fever, an atmospheric delinquency. Bruise-blotched heavens stared down aghast, cloud fringes spasmed in tempestuous ruffles. Beneath a dull foggy veil lingered, ever with its tarrying melancholy mood, a mass blocked the city’s main artery.

October 23, 2025.

 

Into a recalcitrant wind, the kind that coddled the rain as kindred and twirled it in merry-go-round swirls, my joy was an untamed tornado. ‘Twas a tad too generous a-wind for my brolly, though in a bonny mood I could have paired it with roller-skates to sail at a most spectacular speed. ‘Twas a largesse of fine water droplets, barely more than a mist, yet plenty enough to soak. Whatever was the point in hiding from such weather? To keep moving was to keep warm, to keep moving at least brought home all the closer.

October 23, 2025.

 

A brisk wind, a brusque manner, a chivvy of failing bonhomie, that was winter’s first gasp at my heels. A dun sky of smog infused cloud, diffuse, identity lost, feebly glowered aloft. Where was that one eye? That sun? I swear it was here but yesterday. How can I beam when it withholds? How can I shine when it is obfuscated to a dim confusion, a dim confusion that passes for light on such cold days? Fingers freeze, ears too. Teeth chatter, lips blue. Billows of breath jag from juddering lungs; steps falter as the naive heart is full-wrung. The beauty of ice is for the warm. The poetry of snow is for those whose hearth roars. Oh wind, howling, pollution stinking, garbage scuttling, have mercy. Retreat. Wake up spring sooner. Be not so brisk. Be not so brusque. Yet meet my soul in the bonniest bonhomie.

October 23, 2025.

 

A facsimile of a cobbled street ‘twas the cloudy sky, a cool echo of summer’s tree-dapples that had graced lawns of bonny green. Yet that was two seasons hence, a sweet memory to fuel us on. Summer to autumn, autumn to winter had revolved, you see. All shook in winter's icy resolve, in that capricious wind so washed out - so dun, so dull, so dim.

October 23, 2025.

 

The wind came as the fluid braille of the gods, as if the pulse within, the pattern of the raindrops carried, were a code.

April 11, 2023.

 

There came a chaotic tidal wind, rushing in and out, an exfoliating wind that brought the cheeks to higher glow.

March 13, 2023.

 

A dalliance of wind gusted warmly, as if it played the games of dreamy childhood summers.

January 30, 2023.

 

Wind - eddied, swirled and ambient - lifts my hair into a dance. As I watch the strands at their confluence of tether and vortex, a sense of calmness comes.

February 8, 2022.

 

Sailboat clouds make good time over an ocean-blue sky, the wind their companion and cheerleader.

January 7, 2021.

 

Wind waves the tree branches as if in a raucous ballgame celebration.

January 7, 2021.

 

Let the wind blow and sing its songs to stir the emotions, let it bring the sweet memories of times gone and hopes for a good future ahead. Let the wind remind us that we are here in this present moment, in the gift of living, and call us to adore those who are close and give their days to us. Let the wind rustle in the trees and sway the grassy wands, moving the fur of a mouse and the hair of a king all the same. Let the wind come as a wall, only to open up and allow us passage through, curling around us as if it were a soft quilt all along. Let the wind speak of adventures and rouse the noble heart into the ways of the hero who is strong for others and willing to take on the unsurety that comes with helping others. For the wind is all this, confident and flexible, changeable and free.

July 31, 2019.

 

With the rain came the doors that banged, the wind that wanted nothing more than to announce its arrival, to say, "I'm here." And so it went on, the grass outside flattening in waves that reflected the light and the surface of the river covered in waves as if it were in open water.

March 16, 2019.

 

The wind blew through the house with a powerful passion, scattering old documents as if they were the leaves of fall and banging the doors as if they were its chaotic drum beat - the marching band of one without fingers or hands.

March 16, 2019.

 

The wind greets concrete and skin just the same, yet I am blessed to feel it. Its giddy currents flow through woodland canopies, unaware of how its song soothes those who can hear. I have always thought of the wind as so free, chaotic even, yet it too has its path, even if there are infinite possible destinations. It is air with passion, a drive that powers onwards, every direction an option.

January 12, 2019.

 

I grow strong against this wind; muscles working all the more. It is the freshness over my skin, that which makes a fine flag of my tousled hair. In the trees it is a gusting chorus, a song so confidently sung. There are times I feel it within, that push and swirl, that stirring to show what is solidly there. I'm okay with it; I am. For the calmness of sweet days ahead will be such plain sailing, as easy as summer daydreams.

April 25, 2018.

 

I have always loved the wind, for it comes to me so boldly, touches my skin. In coldness it rouses me to wakefulness, an alertness that lets me savour the moments in dryness and rain just the same. In soft breezes it is finer than silk, smoother than water. In the gales it sings through the trees, sending loose leaves on a dancing funfair ride, hypnotic, beautiful. In the summertime wind is cooling, allowing the warmth to gently enter muscle and bone while my skin feels so at ease with the world. Today is almost still and I find myself in joyful anticipation, absorbing the bright colours of the new foliage and buds, taking a moment to watch a dragonfly pass by, its back a brilliant electric blue.

March 25, 2018.

 

On-Shore Omen
 

Kite-ribbon gusts ripple sea of spring wheat,
Sandbank lines drawing bath-house grave deceit,
History’s lens spying Shadow’s repeat,
Sunlight cooling with glance to coastal seat,
To castle ruins of Aslan’s Narnian pride,
Tolkien tales of Sauron’s folklore legions,
Millennia of on-shore beasts wild-eyed,
Light ghost-shivers, “Is cold holy siege on?”
Contemplative blue reading rivulets,
Unfurling as the tears of Rivendell,
Light-capped feathered ears hearing hushed vignettes,
Destiny calm-ruffling as tidal hell,
Yesteryear’s hedgerow of deepest sage hues,
Nods ascension, “‘Tis fairest heads-up news.”
*****

May 26, 2026, Found in Sweet 'n' Salty Poems, Collection One.