
In the sparse garden
he toils with the heavy soil
and the cold east wind
Copyright Francis 2021
In the sparse garden
he toils with the heavy soil
and the cold east wind
Copyright Francis 2021
It’s windy outside,
tossing the full washing line;
dry by afternoon
Copyright Francis 2021
Winds batter the shore;
gulls, ever my companions.
Sand between my toes
Copyright Francis 2021
The wind blows a gale;
I must fetch a sweeping brush.
Fresh air in the room
Copyright Francis 2021
A web clings
with limpid fragility
to the fractured sapling,
timorous in air’s breath,
long left by the spinner
of autumn’s lair
Copyright Francis 2021
Sorrow in the wind
A draft keeping me awake
This cold moonless night
Copyright Francis 2021
Chill wind in my face,
a cat watching from inside.
Heating on all day.
Copyright Francis 2021
A sleepless night, wind
and rain battering windows —
a haiku appears
Copyright Francis 2021
Cold easterly wind
bringing snow and lurid light —
starlings gathering
By the hard side
of the shore,
abutments jutting out
into raging waves,
I paused,
an incessant gale buffeting
my puny frame.
Dark promontories
primed me through sea mist;
they caught my gaze,
my historic sense,
like the herring gulls circling,
riding the howling wind.
I sensed you there,
your sea-grey eyes
staring into nothing,
your soft sing-song voice
of the Borders,
ready to spoil me with sweets,
port and lemon clutched
in your wizened hand.
Somehow you were left
in this nebulous place,
our collective cries screaming
“mother! mother!” —
plaintive calls unheard
in an entangled realm of souls,
given over to the elements.
Copyright Francis 2021
The wind blows
wherever it will
I won’t bend
Copyright Francis 2021