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It is an ill wind that stops a one from putting pen to paper.

THE WIND


BLOW THOU BLUSTERING, BILLOWING WIND
INVITE THE LEAVES TO A MERRY DANCE
THUS JOIN THE HORSE IN NEIGHING PRANCE
PLUCK TAUGHT THE WIRES TO MAKE THEM SING

AND THE TREES TO BOW IN HOMAGE

BLOW, BLOW, BLOW; SEND MY HAIR AWRY
LIFT THE DANDELION HIGH INTO THE AIR
PINK THE CHEEKS OF MY LADY FAIR
FLUTTER THE RANKED CLOTHES TO DRY

LOW THE TREES DO BOW IN HOMAGE

BEND THE GRASS AND TEASE THE WILLOW
SCURRY THE CLOUDS ACROSS THE SKY
FLAP THE COAT TAILS OF JOHN O’BLIGH*
AS HE SEEKS A SOFT TUSSOCK FOR HIS PILLOW

YET STILL THE TREES MUST BOW IN HOMAGE

UNSEEN WIND HERALDING ALL OF THE SEASONS
WHIRLING THE SNOWS TO WARM THE EARTH
STIRRING NATURE INTO PHILANTHROPIC NEW BIRTH
CLEARING THE COBWEBS FROM HUMAN REASONS

TO WHICH NO TREE WILL BOW IN HOMAGE

* John O'Bligh. A gentleman of the road.