WHERE SHE’D BEEN BORN

The Wind caught

the long willow fingers,

And tore at them

As it rushed into the greying

And darkened West.

Once they’d known the quiet softness

Of breezes, and her leaves

All kissed with dew.

But when she had said

That she would stay

By the river’s edge,

(where she’d been born)

The Wind had run faster

And in smaller circles

To nowhere.