The wind in the grass is silent.
Flowers tremble like gentle
movements in the bath.
The spruce trees are brooding,
almost whispering.
How can so much silence be so loud?
I know what all this means:
the end of August and something
down south is heading for us,
barrelling its way up the coastline.
The swallows are gathering.
The vixen is curled in her den.
They know what's on the go.
So I flipped over the lawn chairs,
upsidedowned the picnic table,
as if to say, The wind can't
toss them now.
Too bad we can't flatten the roofs
squash them to the ground
and then open them again when it passes.
The old accordion trick.
~from the wind has robbed the legs off a madwoman (Breakwater Books, 2024)
