Whoosh, the wind whistles round the wall,
Causing golden leaves to fall.
From bushes, and from taller trees,
Their swaying branches stripped with ease.
Whoosh, another mighty blast,
Stops the postman, walking past.
He bows his head against the gale,
And hangs on to the garden rail.
Up above a seagull flies,
Buffeted across the skies,
By gusts of unrelenting force,
Hopelessly she's blown off course.
Clouds scurry by, no time to wait,
Should the mighty wind abate.
And leave them, stranded, nowhere to go,
Casting shadows down below.
Children's voices full of mirth,
Bring my thoughts back down to earth.
Bodes bent against the blow,
As on their way to school they go.
I snuggle down with toast and tea,
The daily paper on my knee.
No need to go out in the cold,
A privilege of growing old. Brian Derbyshire
Ribchester Grove, Bolton
Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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