my father is rattled when the wind blows from the east
he is a dashed rock a greybeard
and he is a boy and bicycle
chasing storms he always knew
the air goes green
scabby knees hounding thunder
from the sky
a lifetime of windswept and seachange
attuned craggy mottled locked
in to every
blister and cajole
what is it like to know the wind so old man
or is it you who are known to them
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