The Wind

The wind has died down today -
last night they were
tossing their heads and
as if they were in a
stamping dance -

I watched the ferry move
out of estuary and
head to open sea:  for
Ireland, the unfamiliar 

Here is another place:  the
tide was out and all the standing
men had emerged, black
against the sand, staring
at the horizon.

I watched the signs and signals
of the modern world:  a lit-up
drilling rig, moved from
earlier, winking lights of buoys,
stacked ship lights, the
harbour cranes like Christmas
Trees, the purple outline
of Wales.

I knew a man, once, who
lived in Birkenhead.  I wonder
if he is still over there -
his place - I could have
spoken to him about the
wind, the long strand, the
iron men.

All I feel this morning is
loss and vacancy: perhaps
when I gather my goods
together and put them in
my case: there will I be

also, a zipped-up place,
a place of boot and miles
of rolling wheels, of
negotiating cars and things,
of my husband as 
destination, of the difficult
people of Monday.

What do I do here?
Who are these women?
Why is this purpose?
When will I know to stay
		or to go?
Where is the place of peace

I never get to,
can never find.  The lit
candle of the mind
burning quietly - the
place I can't get to.

I feel lost without you:
rudderless, yet I have
steered my course here,
at the wheel, these
many years.

The rhythmic noise of the
pile-driver, borne on the
wind, echoes my heart.
How can I begin?

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