Hannah feels a bit poetic

Scotland has me waxing a bit poetic today. I wrote this after walking home from campus. Not much, but I was feeling a bit inspired. 

Footsteps (working title)

It’s when my footsteps slow

That the trees begin to creak

I wonder what’s set them rustling

Creaking out

Old voices passing overhead

breaking in and out.

And if those voices could be heard

-- in more than just my head --

what would they say to you or me

with the wind’s helping huff?

Help we can only speak

when the wind speaks to us?

 

If this forest were enchanted,

what would the enchantment be?

To only speak in whispered tongues.

To never leave home.

To be always seen and simultaneously

forgotten.

The rain doesn’t come in rushing waves

As expectation would have had it

They dance around my head instead:

Droplets dropping

Droplets whirling

Droplets playing with the wind

Or wind playing with the droplets.

I walk past the mystery whistler’s flat

-- I once whistled outside

And someone whistled back –

Today when I reach the concrete corner of the place

The wind whistles through the tiny cracks and past my face.

When I get home

I open

my window

because

otherwise

I don’t know

how I would

breathe

Without the wind to comfort me.