The Wind

The Wind

Incessant at my window
a nagging bitchy wind

that will not let my mind rest
a wind with a vengeance

that demands to be heard
that will not lower its voice

a wind that insinuates itself
into every nook and cranny

an overarching wind
a wind that would drag me

through the streets
given half the chance

an ill wind that blows no good
full of spite and anger

a latch-lifting wind unleashed
from a cage of bitter winds :

how the branches tremble
how the cats that are abroad

cower beneath hedges
in the hope that soon it will pass

a dry wind from the west
that topples whatever is loose

in its ruthless rattling path
a wind that would be at home

in any so-called haunted house
a sly low-lying wind

that might suddenly rise up
and strike you when least expected

a menacing clenched fist
of an inquisitorial wind

brandished in your face
as it scours your soul

for a confession of all yours
timeless sins —past present

and – who knows – perhaps 
even those to come too

John Lyons



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