The winds of the world blow,
Sounds, seeds, dreams to sow.
Blowing around what comes around.
Listen, hear the Earth groan,
The wind whistle and restless sea moan.
Long dead point at places they own.
Watch the finger of the wind point,
Favourite places to anoint.
The common wind has no name,
Knowing only the game.
See the late summer dust swirl,
See the old newspaper rise up,
The wind’s fingers cup.
Watch a desiccated leaf settle,
A briefly tossed fading petal.
Moving on in a bound,
No warm whisper, no sound.
The wind’s toys touch the ground,
Left as they were found.