Wind

Turning inland
From the sea
Passing
Over wet sand
In silent harbours
It comes,

A touch, tracing
The curved
Sleeping islands spine
And moving,
At dawn
To smooth
Fields fringed by crops,

A voice, singing
The empty angles
Of broken churches
Alone
On high hills,

The silent courts
Where once,
Wonders happened
And now
Wait, to be again,

Then rising,
Again to go
Beyond where
Roads and pylons run,

To the silent
Bare plain
Where man is not,
The hard
Line of a shore
Sky and sea meeting
Where the wind,
Loses itself