The Ways Of The Wind
Are those palm trees I see on a distant shore,
Bowing to pay homage to the wind -
Or are they bent over in fear?
Too much wind and our equilibrium is disturbed,
Too little wind and we stay static,
As if captured in a stifling time warp -
Not a blade of grass moves, clouds cease to roll -
And if I were becalmed, I could grow old and crusty,
Praying for a cool breeze to slap my face
And push me into new, uncharted waters.
Too much wind, as now, and my mast cracks,
My sail (my life force) rips and I lurch
Like some old drunken sailor out of control.
I struggle to keep my dignity and remain upright,
I hang onto the rails and pray for the wind to die,
Before I’m thrown head-first into a deep, black world -
Cursing the wind - and God!
When I set out to sail this ocean blue,
I didn’t imagine that any hour, any minute, any second -
Could be my last.
© June Maureen Hitchcock September 2007
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