Poem dump

Wind

Wind whirls in the eaves of houses.

Her voice is everywhere,

she is the whispering in dusty attics,

the howling in empty streets.

She rushes through alleyways,

She scatters paper-thin

fragments of Autumn.

Wind tires. She crinkles leaves,

and floats wispy clouds

across the sky.

With a breath,

Wind dislodges amber

leaves, and sends them

spiralling to the ground.

Wind stirs up a tempest

of gold and rust

coloured leaves, but then

she calms, it is

the golden hour, and

the world is stained with light,

and it belongs to Wind.

Wind laughs, and

dust swirls around damp

piles of copper.

She dances in the lavender light,

the leaves tumble from the tree-tops,

the wispy clouds

tremble in her wake.

But Wind is

a blur, a shadow,

a ghost of a glimmer,

a ripple, ensnaring

ochre. Wind's dancing

leaves become warped;

aged, blackened, burnt and bent.

They are hazy embers,

and Wind pretends

that she is smoke;

curling and snaking,

twisting and writhing.

the ground is

strewn with ashes.

Then Wind cloaks herself

in evening and amber,

and twists scraps of

tissue around her, she breaks

umbrellas with powerful gusts,

snatches away newspapers

in sudden breezes.

Wind whispers secrets

in unhearing ears,

and her laughter is

the crackle of

crisp

yellow

leaves.

Wind disperses the last

glowing sparks

of October.

She streams through

the harsh November air,

bringing with her;

chills and shivers.

To Wind, altitude

means nothing, and

she dances above the world,

and explores the upper

reaches of the atmosphere.

The solar wind cocoons her, and

Wind Laughs.