Poetry: It’s Not The Wind

The wind never stops. It’s been blowing

for months. Picking up speed over the broad waters of the bay, blasting

the Shore with its insistent fury. It’s

unrelenting, leaving us no

peace. Like a person who can’t

shut up and just keeps yammering

on.

 

What is it about the wind that ruffles

my feathers? Is it the evocation of loneliness? The way it creeps

in, exposing every hollow, howling

as it does? The way it roars through, sucking

up any delusions of permanence and leaving

behind scattered limbs to be collected

from our fantasy yards?

 

It never ends, but it always

goes.

—Alex Joyner, 17 June 2020