Old Man and the Wind

The wind came blowing each morning,

Sweeping down their lane

Putting ridges across the front yard

And tearing the crops again.

The stalks were withered in the cornfield.

Her husband grown quite old.

Their kitchen pantry was nearly empty

And still the wind blew cold.

            The wind went by, blowing free.

            It’s the way her old man use to be.

            He would come into town,

            Just passing through,

            And never see the damage that he blew.

At times the sea got angry

And blew salt into the sky.

These acrid grains left his car rusted;

Made all her willow trees die.

At times it made them get thirsty,

But the good water ’d gotten low.

The cattle were all starving

And they were sinking slow.

All night long the wind came and went.

In through the cracks the chilling blow.

All night long her husband’s fever grew,

Until, with dawn, his breath began to slow.

In the old man’s room looms silence.

Now who can tend the sickly cattle?

Not this wind that blows souls away.

It leaves behind that battle.

            Up on the hillside in the backyard

            Cemetery, a new grave.

            It was hacked out with shovel and sweat.

            The fields at home are empty of life,

            But the wind is up there yet.

(Photo from The Pennine Way)