The Aurai

From the attic window
I see the tall larch’s top
Carousing with the breeze;
A tree that will destroy
This whole house one day.
A catastrophe of glass
Decades in the making and
Seconds in its execution.
But is it fair to
Castigate the branches?
When the wind, that old horse thief,
That old roustabout,
Will kick in the teeth
Of any man-made face.
‘We deserve help,
This isn’t our water,’
Shrieks the bumpkin wife,
Before brandishing some
Badly water-damaged towels.
It’s easy to blame the rain
When the wind’s calling the shots –
The populist press wants it banned.
Sturm und Drang, indeed!
A peal echoes down the years,
Brewing storms in cups
Big enough to hold
Whole continents and ideologues.
And when the dust had settled,
The wind kicked it up again,
But every ash that fell alone
Could’ve blown across the Med
To participate in shifting sands
That excavate some
Ancient queen’s lost throne.
The pagans had the right idea
In holding the one being culpable
For the one thing –
A god for every wind,
A dryad, a naiad, the aurai –
Saying ‘You blew down my fence,
Zephyrus, and fair’s fair,
So here’s my first born;
A daughter, no less, a virgin, to boot.’
Better, surely, than saying
‘Those people died due to
Their sin. Well, God’s will be done.’
Though what do I know?
(The branches have stopped waving now,
Perhaps they know I’m on to
Their bargain with Boreas.)
There are no metaphors
Worthy of the wind
And only humans
Blow hot air.