Tuesday Poem: The Shape of the Wind

 

The Shape of the Wind

The wind has no colour
but the things it moves;
no shape but the gaps;
a tree fallen and the rib-cage
of a roof picked bare.
The wind has no voice
but the tuning prongs of chimneys
and wires, walls and masts
singing their frequencies - their
true notes and under-notes;
a howling orchestra of silent things,
the whole sky an up-turned bell
ringing and ringing in an ocean of air.

© Kathleen Jones 2013

The wind was one of the most memorable things about Moniack Mhor.  It howled round the house, buffeting windows and doors.  Outside you could hardly stand up against its invisible force.  But there was something exhilarating about this wind - the sheer power of nature.  It made my skin prick with goose-bumps and generated a feeling of excitement. I wanted to kick up my hooves like a frisky horse and run wild!  This was one of the poems generated in our 'silent' writing sessions first thing in the morning.  All I could hear or think about was the wind.

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