I woke up this morning to racing clouds.
The wind blows, cuts, slices, bangs gates against brick stops,
riffles through hedges, shakes trees, ruts in fields,
runs across water. It’s alive for ill or not, gusting ambiguity.
It blows through Blundell Park, looking for mariners’ corner flags
to twist and tack and turn. It bends the laminated signs that say
the play area is closed. It batters at the padlocked school gates,
across the field, whipping at the grass and on to rattle at the
windows, looking for children to distract
from equations, kings and queens, glaciers, test tubes and Shakespeare.
It throws itself from the glass and screams along miles
of green, steel fence, whistling and whining between the pickets,
in and out like a show dog.
It searches for faces to chill and chap, for ties to toss over shoulders,
scarves to stretch into semaphore. It wants to swirl litter and leaves into legs,
lift hair and skirts. It wants Marilyn.