Poetry — Call of the Wind by Trudy Smith

Call of the Wind

A Poem by Trudy Smith.

For Fiona.

What is this tale we call the wind
A force of stealth and motion
Is it the gentle touch of a coastal breeze
Ruffling skirts and a rippling ocean.

Perhaps it’s a tempest or a hurricane
Building waves many metres tall
The crescendo of those southerlies
With their powerful deafening squall.

While in the lofty great divide
You’ll feel a mountainous icy blizzard
That cuts through coats and jumpers thin
Stoic birds huddled closely shivered.

Maybe it’s the swirling dust of the western plains
That smirk as grit assails your eyes
The willy willy performs his twirling dance
Whipping red sands up in painted skies.

And long lived trees wearing hapless limbs
Have withstood all seasons gales
Finally succumb to just one lethal blast
Blocking tracks and breaking rails.

The road lies lost beneath orphaned leaves
That flutter, fall and rest
It seems all cares are blown away
Trading howls and chants in jest.

A wedge tail soars on rising thermals
Raptorial and dynamic
On outstretched wings the ride is smooth
— nobody else can see it just because it exists.