WISTFUL WINDS

The wind its wistful music makes, 

shakes the curtain, 

stirs the lake to slake its thirst

makes such sighs and moans,

awakes the bones of those long gone, 

to dance, 

a throng of ghosts.

Our brain creates to hypnotise,

our minds, 

and turn the ordinary,

into something strange, 

claim our present comfort.

It blames devilment,

of our so ill worn peace,

like the shadows of the pots 

along the mantelpiece.

They then become alive,

the china cup reminds us of our tea,

the vase, a flower,

all manner of imaginings 

contain the hour.

While fancies fly in leaden skies 

in forms of clouds 

like cloaks and eyes, 

all suddenly a stage dramatic

like delving in a darkened attic.

Finding memories jogged, 

alive again 

to dance in twilight murmuring,

where creeks and shocks and thumps

disturb the unruly smocks 

and shirts and junk.

Then on the flight of gusts 

that take us off

to other climes and other places,

dreamed yet real, 

we feel we swirl and prance

in fantasies unreal.

We love you wind 

that blows away all smut, 

and smoothes the bumpy earth, 

cleans corners out,

irons the folds all flat, 

to leave a scene serene 

and cleansed.