Windish

A baroque wind blows up on a Sunday afternoon.

The wind is a devil this Sunday,

skittering, sliding, leaping to reedy

flutes!

                          The day is a freak.

Today we argued, you won

kneeling at our wind-sucked

Sunday fire, flushed and confident.

 

‘But wind is baroque,’ I cried/implored,

‘whorled,  gargoyled, a whim...

Fey dogs pant past, Ssst! Ssst!,

heads down, day fails

and Marys flower with pain.’

 

                    You grinned, and won again.

 

Now, all the days edges are whetted

by the raw wind, all corners whittled

air, curling, like darkness, to the ground.

 

 

Lateness skates a child

home down our rain-spat street.

Small eddy takes control, delicately

of dead leaves, like a cat.

 

 

Reviews

[SparrowPoet]

I suspect that Thurston might be a tad too good for much recognition from the members of this community. Your writing is very vigorous. It seems you have a lot of control over your poems but they still retain a certain spontaneity. I'll be coming back to check your posts :)