Wind in the trees,
Rain coming fast.
Warmed by a breeze,
Or will it last?
Should we stay indoors
Or be cooled by the rain?
Dance in the garden,
Washing away the pain.
The wind in your hair,
Like an urchin forlorn.
Will you show a care,
After the storm?
Will you run away from the creaking bough?
Find a place to hide,
Or sit there shrieking hour by hour,
whilst staying inside.
Dance in the puddles do not refrain,
Life is for living, so much to gain.
Open the windows and let it all out.
Wonder ever if there was a doubt.
That you would then start to begin,
To release emotions locked from within.
The Daily Post – Storm
Image: Koan via Morguefile.com
A storm is brewing, keep things close at hand.
The woods gently sing their quiet song.
The wind is blowing across the top along the land,
Begins it’s low howl it resonates deep and long.
Building itself up, as though to make an entrance,
Bending trees along the way, start to sway and dance.
Reaching it‘s crescendo thunder crashing through the hills,
A dramatic drum roll there it’s mad frenzy sending chills.
Hurling itself up before swirling around the ledges,
Nature singing out from the safety of the hedges,
Cattle calling across the way, invisible in the mist.
Lovers lost to it’s emotions, meeting for their tryst.
Eerily silent once again, this weather is a curse,
before tinkling raindrops signal the next verse.
Thoughts are stirred up taking you right back,
For a moment, you temporarily sidetrack.
Lost up there in music, a world away from your own,
As they rest again exhausted, the hills will sigh and moan.
This is the music of the hills,
Pay close attention to how it feels,
Of all things fierce and good.
Played out by the Orchestra of the Wood.
The Daily Post – The Music of The Hills
There’s a storm outside again you know,
It hurries outside my window
Trying to sleep is ever so hard,
With things it’s hurling around the yard.
You wouldn’t know it’s the first night of Spring,
Isn’t the weather a mysterious thing?
The dog is restless, sleepers awake.
My body is lifeless and starts to quake.
The night is not peaceful as it should be,
I climb out of bed, make a cup of tea.
And wonder when the sleep will return,
Stopping a moment, from tossing and turn.
Perhaps a biscuit is my firm belief,
That something sweet, will give some relief.
Snuggled on blanket, the dog’s gone to bed,
Laying there motionless resting his head.
The heating is on, so I cannot get cold.
Wonder, Is this what it’s like to be old?
Thinking of all of the plants that have tried,
To grow through the cold so many had died.
Thankful that we don’t live in a hut,
Hoping there isn’t a power cut.
The lights in here, flicker and dim,
If we lost the power a mess we’re in.
When it’s like this he’ll often fret,
But at least he’s not outside, getting all wet.
As the harsh wind changes direction,
Things in the garden, facing ejection.
Rain falling sideways, far and wide,
Makes him find a place to hide.
A car driving by hearing the splashes,
fiercely at the door it lashes.
Dog stops by to check me and gives me his paw,
The wind blowing hard is bitter and raw.
Crashing and banging and throwing about,
It shares it’s own way of wanting to shout.
Through trees and bushes, wanting to bend,
A chance from this that there’s fences to mend.
Thankful that I am safely inside
As we await the yearly spring tide.