The Wind Has No Name

The wind blows,
no-one knows its name,
the same sound over desert ground
and green hill will sing,
                                moan,
                                   cry Mary,
nary a thought for any other
   mother, brother, kin or kith-kissed lover

The wind knows,
that we call it
simoom,
    levant,
        poniente,
                sirocco
and a hundred others...

It will not answer to any
of the many labels given
by Greeks, Romans, Saxons, or Danes:
it reigns, brings the rains, remains
unknowable, save for the soughing in the trees
and the howling through the canyons
that whisper or shout the wind’s anonym into the sky.