Wayward is the wind behind my back,
Whither it blows I cannot tell,
For I am the grain of dust blowing wild with the lack,
I am the a child of the Fell.
A Mistral that sends all the birds off in flight.
The breeze that debates when to turn.
And when it comes hurricane, creatures take fright,
So fast is the run, their feet burn.
A sou-wester heads for fishers at sea,
They race in the teeth of the gale,
Riding tumultuous waves as they flee,
Their faces are gaunt and so pale.
Gently the Zephyr pulls stalks of the grain
In wheatfields, both small and some vast.
Like waves on the ocean, like rivers and rain
Twisting around as they pass.
And still it blows in the hurricane’s eye,
Still as a graveyard at dusk.
I eddy and fro as the waves passing by,
‘Till I fall, a dried up old husk.
Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. October, 2014