Robert Verdon, #279, The Wind Sings my Poems

the wind sings my poems

in the thin voice of pining

up from out of the lowlands

in the purple-grey spaces beneath the sea

where the exiled and the slighted go

to recover, though many never do

the wind sings my poems

in a high sepulchral roar, down

from the high peaks of loss,with

the thunder of the falling swell

that can only spin like a moon

with a boot on her tongue

the wind sings my poems

with the thin chatter of assault rifles

across the packed square of bent bodies,

as the dhow becomes the caravel

weighted with bloodied slaves

in the birth-throes of the West

the wind sings my poems

cries the voiceless infant

at the edge of eternity

through the greying fence-posts

of aimless abandonment

in the corner of the cosmic eye

the wind

the wind

the wind

sings

my

poems

I