That morning was stripped and untied as wind
swept through the place, objects not tied down caught
up in its howl disappeared beyond my visual border.
It was a sort of natural psychosis,
the sort that fretful artists want to paint.
I expected, silly, to see Death’s blackened eyes,
a face shaded by old character in a deep monk’s hood.
And then as if bled of all its strength, the wind fell,
settled into an easy composure, a posture shift,
as if saying – Behold, I’ve filled your glass half full.
And so the morning went, bruised in the frankest
manner of that spontaneous burst of wind.
Written for B A very rough draft which I might rewrite. I’d like to strip it down significantly.