Ken's Poetry

Wind

The hedgerows on the Ridgeway
are brushed away from the bay
and the skeletal fingers of winter trees
reach eastward imploringly
and the lush long grass undulates
like the waves of the over-cliff sea.

Air-driven gulls are sweeping ahead
as lumbering clouds drag green burdens of rain
over the mountain tops.
In sparkling streams splashing on stones
a last glint of scarlet
rubies the water drops.

Grey clouds descend and growl,
a shimmering blade jags the sky,
ice drops clatter on silvered ground
and the wind shrieks a banshee cry.

In his throat is the sea,
the roar of the waves,
white water, white-noise,
the super-fast jet,
the supercharged car,
the scream of steel wheels,
under-bridge thunder
shaking the windows and doors of the house,
whining in dreams,
raging black dreams
wrapped in tornadoes of sleep.