Five Winds.

The first throws fits;

vents his frustrations down telephone wires,

leaves nuts and bolts scattered all over the sky,

never cleans up.

The second lives in the hawthorn hedge,

stayed there all Christmas long,

brought soft drizzle to soothe a world in need;

dampened down the edges of noise;

left silver haws shimmering.

The third, a wind of the high sky,

keens an impossible pitch,

close your ears or you will mourn too.

Fourth, and most annoying, one that steals the sun's heat

when you've removed your shirt on the beach,

and still has the gall to leave you

inside the picture of a warm day.

And the wind imprisoned in an abandoned house:

kicking the doors, swinging in the rafters,

panicking in places no one can find;

a wind beside itself with the terror of its own company.