Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

Ninth Day, April 2nd  

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 turnIt 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 


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© Alistair Wilkinson