Words of Apology (To Aine)

In this rainy irksome void I have caught only a handful of wisps that the wind

Deigned to grant in his fanciful plays of decay and hopeful growths.

And I have often hoped, taking the wisps for whispers, presuming:

The wind surely means no harm, he means only fitful rains of merriment and laughter,

He means no haughty ends, no curling wings of short-lived flies, no words to twist or barter;

Now he is disposed, he is benign,

Still dangerous, yet not unkind,

Disposed to bear a drop of wine,

A crumb of bread or turn of mind

Down the weeping pecks and throats of little things startled and appeased,

Down the veins of throbbing brain or wanton thought released.

Yet who is he can dare to presume, touching the eternal design of freedom under the wings of Winds?

None, a swallow was content to remark, never presuming to guess, but knowingly flitting across the face, through tell-tale limbs of ancient "linds."

Then I understood;

Yet when the autumn made them make haste

Far and Wide from Bleakness,

Then I scarcely could or would

Follow them. I stayed here in the wreckful waste,

Gleaning Weakness.

And upon a rock, jutting into darkness,

Counting the clouded stars, still I bide the time of coming of the departed...