The myth of the Berwick wind

O Angie, angel

Where does the wind go tonight?

With its scattering breath of lives

Your new life,  Angie, child, in your catness answer the riddle

Where does she lie tonight

In which bed

Breathing her flames of fever

That lick my soul?

Where does the wind go?

The flute, the soul?

Scattered into future life

Guide her, shape her, wind, into my myth

Which way does she go, O Angie?

Over waves of wind

Which direction whence

As we sit and wait

For her dancing eyes and footfall, and voice of flute

The wind

A mystic flute, dancing

Scattering seeds

Calling gods into being

As I reach

I nearly touch one, like a breath

And round and round the wind comes

Her image comes, like wind,

She becomes a goddess, she’s all I’m seeing now

Again my vision is her

In the wind I hear her voice of flute

I toss and turn

While Angie dozes, the chaos scatters the wind

Voices saying “madness” and “obsession”

I ask the wind

And is this love?

Waiting

So many things

That could be, birthing

Futures all trying to cling to the wind

One solace, one aim, one die, all the rest pass on the wind

And round and round goes the wind

But my future epitaph –

Her eyes shaped it:

“One who loved G-“