the Wind

The muse knows I can see death

The key in my pocket gathers rust 

As I scratch a nail along its edges

In passing I note the time

And the colour of  a little girls shoes

Not that this changes much

But the wind

In elongated stretches my mind wanders

A staccato of stilettos changes not of my thought

But yet a passing swallow eager for food does

I am bemused for yet a second 

And wander back to my musings

But the wind

A simple lad was that passerby

Interrupting me a simple tune I did whistle

I watch as his soul leaves confused as to why

Was it a rusted key or yet another artefact 

I drink in the black and lick 

But the wind

A crowd gathers in dust and watches silently

Except one, a little girl, yes the one with the coloured shoes

“Mummy” she says while pointing at the shadows

Mother clasps a plump hand across the child mouth smothering

Drowning in the crowds silence tomorrow moves closer

But the wind

Yes 

The wind 

© 2013 Adrian AIDZ Giannini