The wind whips backwards picking up leaves, twists to whispers scraping down Tarmac, uneven flag stones sticking in puddles as wind moans breathing cold air that smells of smoke and late nights waiting for buses clutching arms to keep warm fingers numbing in thin pockets tingling to warmth as doors close windows rattle the piercing breaths through tiny cracks caught in thick curtains that smell of roasts. Here comes winter and long nights and dark mornings testing patience to stay positive to juxtapose to keep going with warm clothes and seeing friends keeping busy to interpose winter with warm fires to find company thats not your own in noisy bars and restaurants to dance like those leaves on cold nights that float in whispers and cryptic flight.

Wind Chime

How loaded idle chat through stress becomes, When plainest meaning's metaphors are wronged and new associations strung now frameworks; simple carriers they've become. When complicated is the talk which building, building bottled wrought, some deeper problem tensely lies, in trivial words and trivial signs. And through some saintly gentle murmur, that quiet sound is growing fervour and clanking through the peaceful quiet - through that stillness in the night to compete with rippled sighs of trees as conflict's clatter - interweaves.