At a Window

Into night-time, flowered rooms
float cuts of breeze, the snipped
free flowing darkness that clings
to found fabric

Out, buried under the sandy
earth, home also to ash and pines
the breeze feeds and grows
then whispers through tiny gaps
in the hinterland, thawing
frost congealed grass

rising, diffusing up and out
strong-arming the canopy
and then dispersing, frequenting
residential trees whose branches
are cut back to give way to wires
and can just about handle rustling

the breeze shapeshifts and
takes the image from an
army of ants, of minuscule beings
of a convulsing great wave
or of a wheat field dancing
it sneaks over fences and takes
no heed of the signs on the tracks

birds hitchhike the breeze
over the Downs. It plays
fiercely, tumbling over the apexes
of hills and lesser mounds and
grassy tussocks, eventually
climbing into cylindrical objects
and letting the gradient do what it will.
Revolutions and revolutions
stopped finally by the cold
concrete of the Channel.

Thieving, anthropocentric
pieces of breeze now on the
lookout for square pockets of
custard light, for yellow
sleeping portals concealed,
barricaded by millimetres
of fabric.

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