Gone with the Wind

Gone with the Wind

| When the breeze first whispered past the hedgerow,
A thrill of cold light slipped through the summer sky,
The old oak in the corner garden lost its leaves,
Their pale kernels tumbling like silver coins to the floor.

| The scent of rain on cobblestones—so earthy, so keen—
Felt as though the wind was telling us a secret,
That stories once held close in our thoughts now drift,
Vanishing into the folds of distant clouds.

| In the half‑lit attic, a diary lay half‑open,
Pages still unfurled, as though a lover's note.
Yet what once sat here, shawls, letters, shining coin,
Same as the wind, fled the edge of the night.

| Colours of loam, brass, amber, black fell soft and light,
The fields heard the scream of its impossible waltz,
And every murmuring stream found this tremble within,
An echo of a moment that can never be reclaimed.

| The horizon, sharp now as a broken crystal pane,
Glows in the wind's signature, it does not return—
Yet, we keep our lanterns lit, waiting for the plain,
For the wind that will return, its mystery and its ­​glow.