It calls to me
this West coast wind,
its voice distinct,
its accent born of
mournful stone,
soft water, rough places.

Its dialect of loss,
of passing lives
and fading memories,
contains the grief of ages.

It wails across moors
knee-deep in bleakness,
through hollow glens
full of emptiness,
trailing grey light and storm
and whipping anger
into random squalls,
seeking, yes seeking -
and losing.

Finding nothing to hold to,
it howls its way across
un-answering seas.

Its moaning tells of
ancientness, endurance
and un-sated yearning,
a lonely sifting through
all that has been
and all that never will.

This West coast wind,
this crying air, whispers
through all the holes
in my soul.

© Elfstone 21/8/11
Crying Air
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