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Careering across the place’s stubborn resistance
is all you witness; trees enraged, brick and glass
taking the punches; and you being deprived
of gravity - incidentally, the hat whipped off
your head is retrievable – just: the gusts are
non-accommodating.
In sheltered pockets the winds are pleased to
swirl the dead leaves into a dance, swishing like skirts,
admixing the plastic and paper detritus
like a lost civilisation,
or how it will all end up to be.
And in the aftermath, the frantic power of the broom,
the stomach of plastic bags for anything,
will leave the place much as it was before;
the high winds were just passing through,
as if it did not concern anybody
just what they were all about.
It takes little effort to draw the window curtains,
and walk down the stairs; and turning on the ignition
of ubiquitous engines proves the source
of motive power; but to move the wind
is to move the planet, the stars.
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