Wind

Who sent you, messenger, running without any feet,

all puff and scurry, but never out of breath?

First you’re all over me, then you’re off

over the next hill before

I’ve laid eyes on you.

Don’t waste your sighs on me. There’s a song in you somewhere

among all those leaves and seeds, the pocket-fluff

you carry in the folds of yourself.

Sing it around her house where

my voice can’t reach her.

Trespasser traipsing through cornfields, no one can stop you.

Berserker havocking among oak branches,

you play in the surf, whippersnapper,

a restless host to the rain

that nests in your hair.

from The Green Month, Faber and Faber, 2025