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:...