The wind is heard no more,
it used to blow a storm,
now it has died, its gusts
are echoes in the dawn.
How bravely stood they on that day
when shores embraced their pride,
their wind-blown hair in rolling waves
that tumbled with the tide.
Now I feel it at my back
somewhere
it tickles my resolve
sometimes
pricks me in a dream
somehow.
And late at night
red roofshingles shudder.