on a windy day
By Baker Street
The wind creeps up the valley and down the mountain slopes like a sly wench. She winds herself around the old farmhouse in the dark early morning hours. As the family lie in their beds, those that are only half-asleep, can hear her moan and groan about the corners of the old wooden house.
She whistles and weeps as she blows through the roof beams, and the branches of the trees outside. She gently stirs the grass out on the flats. Her breath is a softly whining song of the wind. She never rests, and through the days, months, years and centuries to come, she will touch and stir this valley with gentle fingers, as she has always done.
She is nowhere to be seen, but everywhere to be felt. Always moving, always stirring always touching. She dances and plays in harmony with the world, and with nature. She is nowhere and nothing, yet she is a part of everything in this world, and her presence is everywhere. She is the ghost of life. She stirs all, and gives life to everything she touches.
The nothing that is a part of everything. And still the wind stirs gently over the plain, and around the old wooden farmhouse. She lives, and moves, and breathes – eternally. And still the wind whines and blows, like the wail of a beautiful widow at a wake.
The wind moves and stirs. Gently moving the grass, as she bends and sways them. The wind blows, and still the wind blows...