The world is a ghost through which the wind throws. Nothing stands
forever in her endless way
Dust she hardly notices
be it bite from meteorite, pollen from a mulberry
or the remnants of one of Cleopatra’s lip-painting reeds
The wind skips careless past
the common warthog, black garden ant, chanteclair chicken, and a radiated tortoise
hunching slowly across it’s meagre one hundred and thirty years
dissolving in one sigh
She licks down glass and stone towers
tastes and carries thunderous shock wave and siren, puffs sand castles
snuffs polystyrene, polyethylene, lights of mercury and swallows spindrift
She pushes her fingers past the sieves of night-time’s darkest sleep
brings good dreams, poor knights, and sore throats in the morning
To the wind the world is a ghost, we haunt her
driven by the sun, she goes endlessly
singing by her way.
Discover more from Kilmeny MacMichael
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
