pibroch on a windy night
the wind that whispers like a whistle
through eaves and leaves outside my window
soft as a rose, rugged as a thistle
begins to sing and sigh a world lovingly air-
lifting me up and nestling me down
here and there and everywhere
sound as it does like the clashing cymbals
in a marching band
the fingers of the wind are quick and nimble as
ears tuning into
the broadcast on airwaves up and down the street
unlocking the pain of a twisted sinew
washing back against the darkness like a pibroch
repeating the hours like a broken clock
James Thomson