The day I shouted at the wind
I flew – my voice – away
and air contorted with the sound
of breath in desperate play.
I didn’t hear it echo round
where congregations pray;
perhaps it will return, rebound,
on judgment day.
A syllable or two,
a vowel,
a consonant or two,
a howl;
a new expression as a ring
into the void, no-thing.
The last day of April can be cruel,
lush-early the bluebells are fading.
Spring’s fervent these days but little flags
stand and wave in the wind, their last stand.
Can you tinkle the river,
can you timbre a blackbird,
can you stock-still a shiver,
will your bell soon be heard?
Hot – as if in Summer,
a field of bluebells shimmers
- this has been their time –
and together they have competed and won
for bee and butterfly, spider, the sun
warmed up their faces - bowed out - by the moon.
