“…and the sky
Begins to gloom, and o’er the ground
A moan of coming blasts creeps low
And rustles in the crisping grass;”
Winds from the South soothe
and smooth, rolling the tops of grasses
into a benedictory sea; I hear them sigh
with each wave of caress
those stooped stems, nose down to the North
Then with the receding tide of gusts
their heads thrown back, waving skyward.
All astir, shaken awake
the way a cool morning shower
tingles the blood
Do they too see faces in the clouds
change, darkening with a pent passion?
I sense the girdling of West with South.
A frontal fevered fusion of warmth
salt sweat and expectancy, electric
like the touch of your hand,
hastening us to hideaway.
Not only the south wind flattens grass
lovers leave an imprint there, so too cows
before rain – but the sudden summer storm
tempestuous, torrential, gone in a trice
razes grasses to submission
prostrate before a sovereign strength
Epigraph from South-west in the Woodland – George Meredith – a powerful personified poem of of the South-West wind and well worth a read even if not in mode these days.
Title taken form “Surfacing” by Kathleen Jamie as given by Sarah for her Poetics prompt: Travels in the wild