Gales as experienced from the Attic Room, Dorset

Waves of wind wash the house
Settle the muscles that tighten the mind
Emptying anger that lingers amidst
The lumen of organs
Twisted in angst

Each individual leaf amongst
The herd of trees is
Twisted
And beaten in isolation
As nature
Thunders
To and fro, piles over the rooftops

And long-suffering vertebrae of ungulates
Amongst the black thickness of night.

The gusts bully puddles, grass blades, aerials
And dissipate as a baton passed along the isobars.

The sentiment of this weather
Runs its hands through my hair
Rubs the muscles that tightened my back
Blows the tired despair
That clings
To the wiring of my mind
Like heavy, wet clothing on a line
Blows it into next door's garden where
They
Can deal with it
Because it is not my washing.

Nature is cleansing the earth.

In absence of perpetuity

I imagine
Vibrant souls on a conveyor
But I can't imagine
Such bright stars burning out
Without earthly assurances
Of perpetuity

Sorrow dripping
Into open soil
To feed a new blossom
A chance to live again
Fed from the bottom of another world.