Evening Wind

The wizened chestnut tree could only cradle 

The evening wind in his candlestick arms for so long.

For she had much to say, and wanted to be free to speak

Of far-away places she had been, things she had seen. 

Her words broke loose and raced each other to the ground

Where they tumbled and fluttered excitedly at our feet.

Regaling us of the summer storm that had given chase; 

A dreadnought glowering beyond the neighbouring hill

With its old farm that shrugged behind battened-down

Barn doors, a mad dog barking in the heavy air.

But when we did not listen she blew open the doors

And slammed shutters in roaring tantrums against the walls,

Dragging curtains from their open windows until they hung

From their fittings like poor souls being swept away in a flood.

Simon Denegri

Gers, France, August 2018

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