Wind - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
At dawn the soft susurration of the leaves that been Lila's lullaby through the night became a fierce rustling, loud enough to drown out the chorus of the birds. She sat up and brushed the leaf litter from her tight black curls. In her experience, all thirteen years of it, the wind did not arrive all of a sudden. It should build up gradually and it should weave through the tree trunks a least a little. She licked her finger and held it to the wind, hardly a breeze at all, almost still. Yet above was such a gale that new green leaves were tumbling down, some still attached to their twig. Every fibre of her being commanded her to run, but she was as rooted to the spot as the towering flora about her. The canopy was rapidly disintegrating, the myriad of green hues was now punctuated with shafts of light. The promised wind pushed througj the gaps, pummelling into the soil and whipping the debris into a vortex around her. Lila dived for a tree trunk as the wind escalated to hurricane force.
The wind was Cynthia's nemesis, but it hadn't always been that way. As a child on the highlands she had built kites with her father and they would fly them on a Sunday after church. Back then a howl to the wind as it gusted around the stone cottage would be as welcome as a greeting from an old friend. She would burst through the timber door with her scarf bound tightly about her neck and just stand there for a moment to feel it's keen cool bite. But times had changed. She wed a fisherman, her childhood sweetheart, and now that howl made her blood run cold. She would clasp her arms about her and pace the floor. When the trees bowed and the birds ceased to fly she knew the sea was a tumult of giant waves, enough to sink a wee painted fishing boat. Sometimes she feared that it's moan had been carried right from the ocean itself, that it was the moan of those men being tossed like inconsequential dolls.
I have no control over it because it is not mine to control
It moves the world in a way that moves the soul
I cannot grasp it at all
It is invisible in daybreak and nightfall
Yet it turns the grass into a sea
And never fails to amaze me
Its sound is a tickle to my ears
But yet a roar to my fears
It is soft and lilting
But yet loud and deafening
A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine, searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek.
It was a dark and stormy night and the rain fell in torrents except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies) rattling along the housetops, and fiercely, agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Found in Chapter One of his novel "Paul Clifford."
...the broad leaved shrubbery gossiped softly with the wind...
She had wrapped herself in a long silky cloak that gleamed in the starlight, and as she strayed up and down the deck like a grey ghost, the wind took hold of it and flicked it about her making it crack like a silken sail. It took fronds of her hair too and made them into lashes that beat her face and blew above her head.
The wind was roaring in the great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep in a forgotten land.
Jerome walked over the damp heath like he was wading through treacle. He heaved his legs against the gale, against the pressure building on his chest and hitting his face like it intended to go right through. With eyes squinted to let in only enough light in to navigate, he never slackened his pace. Each step took him closer to home and hearth, to Delilah.
The wind that almost rocked me back on my heels this morning is now no more than enough to make my raincoat flap. It flows between the button holes, chilling my skin beneath and tousles my hair to the ringlets Henry like so much. It's just as well he does, because after being blown for so long I'll never get a comb through it without half a gallon of conditioner.
The leaves scud over the ground and take small flights into the air. As I toss my head back and raise my eyes to the sky a smile spreads from freckled cheek to cheek. The branches sway like the arms of a soccer crowd and it their chaotic dance they are hypnotically beautiful. My mind relaxes and I feel the happiness of my life bubble up from within. The light I keep inside begins to escape from my pores. Were it not for the passers by I would spin like a little girl again, arms out wide and fingers spread, but instead I keep my hands in my pockets and inhale deeply. This wind carries the fragrance of the woodland, the essence of my childhood days...
In the silence he could hear the wind sweeping around the prow of the airship, testing its joints and seams. A draft swirled up from where the camera thrust out into the night sky, snatches of cold air coiling around their feet.
Gusty wind, sends spirit soaring, leaves dancing, boughs creaking, waves crashing, wild sea spray, waves pounding the shore, roaring of the sea, wind lashing, clouds scudding across the sky, salty wind whipping your hair wildly around your eyes, salt encrusted on your eyelashes, blown backwards, lean into the wind, inside out umbrella, hat blown off, storm force, hurricane approaching
The clothes on the line blow like flags in the wind and the clouds race by fast - like cars on the highway. It's not a day for loose hats or umbrellas, but a day to tuck my head to my chin and let my hair whip around my face. There is something about these windy days that blow the cobwebs right out of my head. No sooner have the trees begun to sway than I'm out the door in jacket and boots. In ten minutes I can be at the sea, watch the waves and take a lung full of salty air.
Above is the sound of wind blowing cotton - like so much laundry put out to dry. But it isn't Grandma's old socks or fathers long underwear; it's our flag. To me it will always mean home. It is rectangle of cotton and dye I am proud to stand behind, the old pattern that means we are strong and true. In the gusting wind it moves like it should, like the classic shots from the movies - rippling, almost in slow motion. It must be new though, the colours aren't sun-bleached, they're bright and the fabric isn't frayed around the edges.
We finished packing the car with a few essentials for our little excursion. We had our walking shoes, lunch, and a flask of hot tea. We were ready to set off on our journey. We knew it was going to be a windy morning, but we wanted to make something of the day rather than sit indoors. We headed south towards the coastline. There didn't seem to be a mighty gale as forecast. We drove for only 30mins then the sea almost erupted before our eyes. The waves lashing the coast like hot butter in a frying pan. The wind buffeted the car as we drove closer to the shore. There was a small almost empty carpark ahead. We drove in and parked close to the sea. We found a spot only meters from the coastline. We switched off the car engine and listened and looked out at the ocean. The sound of the ocean and the wind was exhilarating, not a moment of silence could be found while the car rocked in the wind. We grabbed the flask of tea and sandwiches and sat in silence while we eat and admired the view.
Biting, harsh, chill to the bone, bitter, rude, sub-zero, warm, tropical breeze, cooling, welcome, scented, perfumed, billowing the sails, rustling leaves in the trees, susurration of a breeze gusting autumnal leaves, blowing the waves across the ocean.
The wind sounded its mighty roar, making everything that surrounded it shake in fear, even the leaves fled in terror.
David and Shaan spent their afternoon dashing outside, climbing up the cliff behind the hut and running along the ridge, challenging the wind. The wind answered, it came in rushing, powerful gusts. It roughed up their faces, sprayed about their hair, then it would race away and around the mountain peaks and come back for another lark.
It was exciting, the pure power of the wind, that its Creator is infinitely more powerful. It’s more than our finite minds can understand.