Rosemary Barker


Tonight none will visit
frightened off by the big blow

Its force could take me off
I am not really anchored here

Life’s tapestry in threads
Threads and dreams carried on the wind

Ignored by two wise crones
in the far windy Eastern Cape

Their joy in the needle
not affected by rattling door

Their shared joy in bright threads
not affected by loosening panes

Cornelia Bullen-Smith


Night. No one will visit.
Lie still. When the wind is perfect
gaze to sky like this – is
wonder, is gratitude, is love.
Adrift when the wind sings
my mind oozes all squooshy things.
Wind, I say, what did you
see today? You! Have you seen my
daughter? Heavenly child,
is she alright? Night, is she one
to gaze to sky like this?
Gaze to sky like this. Humbled. Be.

Christina Coates

And the day is ending.
The heat that sucks up all the air
sucks in again and out;
at last is gone. The wind returns
chasing the red hot day,
stampeding the dry fields to ground.
A strange mob of panting
trees, towering green blue-gums hide,
drop their gaunt sad faces
melting in long swags. They gasp grey
breaths of stinking resin;
the only sound; all day the heat.

Di Oliver


Entangling wind has my
dark, wild hair in a tight knot.
it’s a wild, bad hair day,
we’re off to a rocky start.
funny how the plans go
by the wayside on days like this,
buffeting the fynbos
and yet, the Cape’s late summer wind
clears the air and spreads seeds;
breathless experiences flow
the sky glows, the heat hangs
the spirit-filled world all around

Cynthia Mac Pherson

Once upon a farm

evening air humid with
emerald ghost green banana trees

church-fetid leaves were lush
elongated and motionless

we slept in that strange place
and woke to midnight lambs bleating

scared beating hearts beating
on the door the wind rattled and

called to our little girls
in the twist of the wind the cold

mocking monster we feared
some evil intention some force

sucked up in that twister
emerald ghost green banana tree

breeze that enters the soul
we covered windows hearts beating

thunder and lightning thrashed
we cuddled close the six of us

in the morning the lambs
lay dead; ewes were bleating bleating

Varsha Patel


a scared lost little girl
in this huge body. my whole life
my whole life running. like
the wind i feel stuck – running. back
home hiding. safe from love
life breathe everything. how brave i
was then to risk to live.
now a lifetime of ghosts for me
a scared lost little girl.
my heart says go where the wind of
my life trembles beckons
my mind twists angles meanders.

Maire Fisher

The wind flings a magpie
high and flings me too, skyward through
the green trees to the blue.
The wind flings me up to the stars
and beyond, beyond far
and unfamiliar to face
the darkness of this place,
these silent gathering shades. Unlit
by bright-faced  moon they flit,
content to prowl, to sit, to lie.
A candle is not bright
enough to scare, to frighten back
the waiting, wakeful pack
of those who watch and track  my breaths.
A candle’s not enough
to scare, to frighten death. A beast
unleashed, unchained, released
it calls its throng to feast on me.
And I too scared to flee, can’t fly.

Annaleen Erasmus

Pine trees are always green –
staunchly retaining their colour
season in, season out.

There is a breeze, cooling hot cheeks,
tentative, apologetic –
quivering in silver beeches.
Gentle movement of leaves
transforms them to massive mobiles

Wide-winged swallows and swifts
are carried across the skyline


Hear it, feel it, smell it:
Torrents of flame chased by fury.

Liane Greef

Maybe I have blown away

Part I

I believe maybe I
have blown away, trailing white wisps
belonging to myself
to the blue of the sky where clouds
whisper on my warm skin
and night is a memory that keeps

Wind blows and brings us heat
I warm, thinking, holding onto
him, drift off into the
wind drifting butterflies blue black
My gaze from God’s window
falls below the sky and I gaze
You can – if you’re lucky –
sleep in the warmth and the knowing.

Part II

The vervets and baboons
see Africa from the tree tops
Cicada legs humming
I,rootless and a wanderer
When my wings are folded
Walk in the blur of the background brown

Misgivings about worth
surface. But who needs perfection?
Awaken the soaring
Do mountain climbing!  Who? says the
wind. Who? I shout louder
Say, let the energy flow strong
Through the blowing trees I
swing, strong enough to find freedom

Jean Green

Is it like a rainbow
the colour of the blowing wind?
Giving to us this world
in all of its endless beauty?

Or do we need to take
a single colour at a time
form our lives around it
until that colour makes a change
and we change colour too?

Feeling blue is easy
The colour blue speaks for itself
Yet blue is not confined
to feeling down or being depressed
it makes me feel cool too

A pale green misty wind
drifting the far fields can help me
to feel the power of
all the things that nature can do –

The misty green has fled
The wind in the desert blows red
The mirage will shimmer
and oases shine indigo

Yellow colours freedom
and ribbons round the old oak tree
Where have the soldiers gone?
To greener pastures every one

The breeze, mist, trees and all
colours combine to help me to
understand what the earth
will give and has given to me
Past, present and future
The rainbow colours of the wind

Ruth Mattison

A Luc Bat to Wind

Come in, my soul breathes
Your living song is creating a
poem of praise to life
I wait for you to end – to break
but still you come.  Your sound
slips sideways through cracks invisible
Your cool breeze lifts me up
I am atom whirling in space
not separate but a
star ready to explode with joy
I am the wind of change
The gift of air blows through me now.

Lynn McGregor

Where does the wind go?

Wind ruffles sparkling sea
Clouds drifting shadows. So sad
the last precious moments.
Is this really, really goodbye?

Waves flowing in and out
when they go and I am left alone,
who am I without them?
My two footprints on the sand

South wind blew white feathers
scattered them all over us
light as truth. So many.
We laugh, remembering good times

White feathers gently float
I watch them fade and disappear
Who am I on my own?
Caressed gently by the soft breeze

Karin Andersen

Come, come, watch the wind as
it walks the field stroking the grass
a song of clouds gathering
hot air breathless, waiting, only
a finger trailed across
a cheek, a dust devil dancing
a song of slow summer
a barefoot dusty song
of swimming pools and naked days.

the wind is a bugle
defeating reason it summons
us to war, to rise, to
overcome, it screams in our ears
saying arise, fight, win
calling us to action, to
movement, to march, a wind
announcing a change, a shift, a
renewal, an overthrow
an insidious wind bringing
days without light or joy.

the sun burns red, the world
holds its breath, the mist rises
from the hollows and dances
hours drag sullen feet into
the morning shoulders hunched
against grey sulking aching days
the sluggish river is oiled by cold
I am a fish floating belly up
a farewell will o’ the wisp.




Who has seen the wind? Me.
In the exhausted tree, the worn
lines of plants in my dawn
garden, in the sand form rushing
along the beach throwing
itself at us, spoiling our food.
I saw this wind.  Its rude
gusts making children brood and cry.
The edges of it, I noticed
in the corner of my
eye that day; now in my memory.


Entangling wind tries to
free even while it captures – holds
us captive with chaos
breeding urgent desperation
to be still and escape
its persistent distraction.


It’s not the season that
Makes the dark but the wind in spring.

Janine Goullée

The Walk

Of different colours
the sun pushing cautiously through,
tickling birdsong and hills.
Bushes shimmering with the wind
visiting fields and seas,
with a cool whispering caress
through the hills. Later on
dancing shadows  cast on the cliffs.
Stilted  slow swaying trees,
only a pale green mist drifting
into tiny air wisps.
A day of self discovery,
layered far horizons,
lunch shared with fat basking lizards,
we rested, exhausted.
Lazy dragonflies dip into
pools of deep still water.
Moving, purply-black canopies –
ferocious elements
escalate to their true power. cloistering together
for comfort, we know that no-one
will visit, save the wind.
Souls have been filled with her power.

Kiki Theo


Float into her dead face
the shadows gath’ring lace-light loom

wild wind pacing the room
as darkness spreads and soon the orbs

of eyeballs dull and torn
will glaze; thin light forlorn will fade

snow breath light puff slow laid
till body’s debt is paid in blood

the wav’ring shadows sud-
denly awash with muddled breath

the wind sigh that is death
unravelling to rest in space

Karen Brooks

And feel

And feel the roots
of the house move, roots
are anchored deep
within the darkness buried
underneath all that can
be seen. The house supposedly
solid hides the deep roots
even more they pretend they have
presence. They pretend they
are of the earth but
one day, maybe now or maybe
long in the future, they too will die
ever changing a bliss
is found.