shtum, 7th February 2017

it’s said… everyone knows everything about everyone nowadays…… ah, the Internet…….. but no one knows the sound of the wind as it snakes and slithers through the trees in my garden at night…… in the dark in the winter in the absence of people, troubling trees and messing with moss and lashing the lichen that stiffly hangs proud of the bark… no one hears that but me, safe on the inside unless I go outside and then I am outside the inside…… no one can know the feel of the wind, the tail of the storm, as it whips through the trees in my garden at night….. bothering birds that huddle unseen and unheard, mostly because they prefer to keep shtum when it’s dark with their eyes no better than mine…….. I listen for patterns and find them until they’re gone as if they were really there and not simply an affectation of my own gnawing need for some order to lay upon blusters of chaos and turbulence, draft and disturbulence, gusting tempestuous, huffing and fraught………. does wind make a sound or is it the sound of the obstacles stood in its way?…. do I make the wind make a sound that’d be different from the sound it’d make around you?……. as I lay in the bed the wind changes pitch as it lures me to sleep despite my best efforts to keep my ears open… though open they are and listening still even while I sleep I am hearing its moods, its temper, its fickle ovations for attention……. does it want to be noticed?……. by the time that I woke it’d gone, leaving nothing but what was there before as though it’d never been at all……..

© robert greig


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