A fierce western wind whines, screeches
through tramway cables and wires
in waves of crescendos and abrupt pauses….
He is not like the wind
who whistles through rigging
and moans as he clanks cables.
Our wind is wild but free.
This one fights his way through mazes of old buildings
That herd him down the Lez*, screaming.
He has no dead needles to sweep off parasol pines
Or palm trees to shake and rattle
Only young plane trees to torture and whip.
Their leaves twist and flatten,
Hang for dear life on slender stems,
Huddling and holding,
Folding for protection or strength.
I watch their struggle from my window;
Do they feel the sting of flying dirt
or the slap of trash
as it flies and swirls?
Looking at chaos behind glass panes,
isolated, in a still space,silent,
but for strange and quiet whispers
slithering and echoing through hotel pipes,
unruffled but not unperturbed,
I long for home.
*River of Montpellier