The Wind

These couple of weeks, the weather in Ireland has been rather … windy. No surprise, as winter here can be like that. This poem was born on a cold, bleak, windy day.

The wind sweeps the city clean
With roots exposed to the cold
Trees bowing, confusing the cars
That rush away, somewhere,
Where the birds have their wings ruffled
And the bells sing a prayer
But no priest sings in the church,
As even he, a mere mortal to this world,
Can’t go against the wind,
The wind that rattles the roofs 
Of tin can houses, a song that
Frightens the mind and body
And here I am, hidden behind the walls
Of this hollow house I inherited,
A house my father’s father built,
A place where the wind
Sweeps the dust and old furniture
Where footprints of my childhood
Bear witness to this grown-up body
Frightened by the wind that
Sweeps my memories away, away, away.