Wind

Today the birds are ghosts,

They do not come,

The scraps I toss, 

Are alien fare,

The Bush itself is dumb -

No sound from any tree,

Not one, nor dash from eaves,

Or scattered squawk,

No fervid rustle in trembling leaves,

For the wind today would plumb

The abodes of the Anemoi,

Its long lashing arms seek,

They plead and clamour and strum,

There is no room to speak,

No leave for breath.

And still, to breath

And see the sway

In the afternoon's frantic skirl,

Of a golden dancing gum.