The Whispering Winds
A poem of the language of the breeze
She whispers near my window
and filters through the trees
in a language that I understand
the language of the breeze.
In the morn before the dawn
she whispers o’er the Bay
and moves the soft leaves waving
to herald a new day.
I watch her from my vantage point
she sweeps the clouds away
and lifts sea-eagles soaring
high above the ocean spray.
All the time she whispers
a song born in the nether
she travels o’er the land and sea
and through the purple heather.
She is the sailor’s companion
respite from summer heat
for a refreshing change in the air
she’s impossible to beat.
Her metaphors are magic
as she floats freely through the air
she washes away uncertainties
then leaves without a care.
She comes each day then in the night
she gently fades until
the dawn comes softly stealing
she rarely will lay still.
She brings the things I long to hear
and brushes past my skin
she is the whispering winds
my very next of kin.
©
David Rudder
5th August 2020
Thank you for reading.
