poem – this wind –

this wind

draws squiggles on paper,
phonetics to occasion
a harp in the air between us,

hoo-hoos in high C,
shuffles through tower block windows,
travels along rail tracks,
ten mile valley,
concrete, glass, steel,
under bridges
dead leaves clack like castanets.

This wind,
passing strokes of pendulum,
the flight of months to nothing.

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