Who has seen the wind?
The sky is a bright blue and then grey and then black and then white as clouds scuttle across overhead so very quickly.
The cockerel and hen on the weather vane swing back and forth from south to west. The cord on the church tower's flagpole flips and flaps to a regular beat, like the mast of a yacht trapped in a blustery harbour or the sound of eggs being whisked professionally in a metal bowl.
There are high winds today in The Enchanted Village. There is an edge to the air. You are a witness to the wind's power, the roar, the rush. You can hear it, you can feel it. You can even smell it. But you cannot see it.
The beech trees break out into rapturous applause. A laurel bush waves frantically, the ash tree whooshes and rushes, its branches dancing, the yew moans as if to tell the world this breeze is far too strong for its ancient bones. The oak tree - solid, dependable - takes it all in its stride.
In my head I am a child, my mother reading me this poem by Christina Rosetti:
The cockerel and hen on the weather vane swing back and forth from south to west. The cord on the church tower's flagpole flips and flaps to a regular beat, like the mast of a yacht trapped in a blustery harbour or the sound of eggs being whisked professionally in a metal bowl.
There are high winds today in The Enchanted Village. There is an edge to the air. You are a witness to the wind's power, the roar, the rush. You can hear it, you can feel it. You can even smell it. But you cannot see it.
The beech trees break out into rapturous applause. A laurel bush waves frantically, the ash tree whooshes and rushes, its branches dancing, the yew moans as if to tell the world this breeze is far too strong for its ancient bones. The oak tree - solid, dependable - takes it all in its stride.
In my head I am a child, my mother reading me this poem by Christina Rosetti:
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
And suddenly it all makes sense.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
It's certainly making its presence felt - the sun parasol on its sturdy plinth has toppled twice and has now been banished to the garage.
ReplyDeleteOh, I wish I could write like that! Beautiful. (and Christina Rosetti can write too!)
ReplyDeleteThat's a lovely poem :)
ReplyDeleteMaddie, I liked the way you described the wind in the first 4 paras.
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Beautifully written! And a lovely poem too.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful. Nominated you for the Irresistably Sweet Blogger Award over on my site. I absolutely love the way you tell a story.
ReplyDelete