Vinden belg sakte (The wind bellows softly)

by Isobel Sheene

Silent bellower,
Unheard words echoing
In the hushed tones of waves
As they ripple softly out to sea.

Invisible flag-whipper
Beats the red-backed blue cross
Held together by white borders
And rips the woven snake that ties it down.

Branch-pusher rustles
Through the emerald leaves.
Spruces sway from the giants’ breath,
As he climbs to the mountain top.

Clouds exhaling in a gust.
Washing-dryer, useful, good.
Tree-toppler, deadly, bad.
Blowing ships over the ocean.

Billowing nothingness.
Empty movement.
Unseen bird-flight
In the blank, open sky.

Air-snatcher steals the breath
Of flowers blown horizontal.
Air whisperer tells me secrets
As it breezes through the grass.

Elsewhere dust-snorter sneezes
Tumbleweed across the plains.
Or snow-snuffler pants
With gasps of blizzard-blur.

But here the glass-blower takes
His lungful of atmosphere.
Exhaled with gusto, it storms
Across frozen fields.

Leaf-churner cannot move rock
From its solid resting place.
Instead it whips up giant waves
That batter and smash it.

Thor’s fuming anger drives
The sheets of rain down.
Resulting percussion intermingled
With the sound of his hammer.

Eagle soars on the wing-lifter,
As though floating on
A wave of pure, clean air.
Then it dives down, out of sight.

Swirling circles of tree-paper
On a school playground.
Mini hurricanes filled
With empty air.

I watch these little miracles
This strange phenomenon
As it blows, and wonder.
Why did it start?

I have witnessed much
Of the efforts of old face-weatherer.
And as it winds down the road
To join me, I remember.

I remember days of storm
Of breeze, of gale, of snow,
But I forget the name.
I hear it rush to tell me softly;