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The Westwind
The Westwind, freshening, howls in her rage.
Assaulted by rough fingers of Gritstone.
Tearing her dress of grey taffeta clouds.
Angry tears of rain lash against the ridge.
Whose rough, grey hands, of cold rock, know no shame.
Mishandling the storm, in the age old game,
Knowing all the secrets, under the robe,
Of the proud young gale, here seeking her fame.
Raging, ranting in her deep throated scream.
She tears blindly at me, in her anger.
Trying to cast me off the black clifftop.
Where my arrogant confidence brought me.
Her rage will abate for the stones can wait.
While my tent, in shelter, is torn to shreds.
And proud ships founder in the billows.
