I look at the
myth of winds
how it appears
first dream, then
awakening reality.
The wind-kissed hills
are timeless, as thse winds
bring everything to a still.
Gurgling streams, ancient hills
hard steely rocks. History.
The winds then transgress history.
Were they before time, or after it?
In some hidden labyrinth of odiferous
time, rain, thunder?
Were they?
In April this year the winds reinvent history.
They are late, or early, as the smog dissipates
the winds into chaos.
Somewhere there are fire engines clanging.
The winds have been a ravaging spoilsport
as a house lies gutted somewhere.
But in my mind's eye
the wind becomes a howling man.
A third person.
