the wind is coming through the walls
as wet spotted cement,
as a metallic keening
it is cruel
this wind
tearing young green shoots
from low plants
clawing up into air
old maritime pines
and the roots of old chestnuts
I worry for the birds
for beetles clinging to bin lips and torn twigs
as this wind
pushes and pulls
my peace apart
I start
dreaming again
of when
into cloudless dusk,
nightjars flew,
hushed
by midnight's stars
and their weft
constellations
where are the swifts in this
whistling deadly air?
