Helm wind
You are a wicked, spiteful gust
coming here throwing bin lids about.
You clatter and rattle,
bruising paint and denting,
flattening crop heads and shaking branches bare.
Dislodging my peace and flipping hair in my face,
Why can’t you let me have this calm day?
Grit in my eyes, icy fingers down my neck,
vengeful weather sprite, you unloosed the tiles and
splintered ancient boughs,
in one malicious night.
Swirling meteorological demon,
you tumble rubbish up the road,
and rumble down the chimney pot,
soot spitting tantrum.
Don’t take my tender new trees as a challenge,
I’m not your sport.
