Of Wind or Rain

Invisible hands bring rain
Or, without rain, brush distant grass
In curved strokes upwards
From hollow to hilltop.

In wide green waves,
Darker currents bend the seedheads,
And fade away in the field margins.

Light-fingered, the wind
Scoops air so high above
That clouds merge and feather
Or, darkened by future rain,
Scud and rag across the hills.

The early wind, at first unsteady, faltering,
Eddies on street corners at lamp-lit dawn,
Idly shuffles tattered papers and fallen leaves
Shakes clothes-line figures to life,
Then leaves them limp and empty.

Another surer wind, more purposeful,
Starts as a breath in the morning of a day
Rattles frames and shutters in its noon
Or long risen into its evening
Sways trees and wire-strung posts.

Later, in the night, all the winds go howling.
Hidden by their own invisibility and the dark,
They squall their loud, black traffic,
Stealing thunder from the clouds’ electricity,
Raking their gale-force hard upon the land.

In the washed-out early hours, if silence descends
And the winds sleep, breathless and fey,
Sound alone remains in echoes, like a dreamt-of sleep.

As sun, reborn below darkness, rises and spreads light,
The wind’s transparency, reflected by the world’s shape,
Makes visible all change and motion.

The wind’s still unseen hand reaches out, brings rain at last,
Sends water stuttering over rooftops, racing into down-pipes,
Glistening wet on stone and earth, on every turning road.

The ghost-plucked wind, like a cold kiss on skin,
Moves on through slanted drizzle.

It is the cloud canopy moving between showers,
Or its shadowed haste across the hills,
While the careless drifts of bending grass
Skim like waves on a green sea
Becoming lost on a long slope of shore.

 © BH 2015

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And then the power of the elements and what they do best: wash over us. We think we’re the masters. Scant chance. The more we carry on regardless, the more the elements push back. ‘Nae maisters here!’ they cry. ‘Telt!’