ON THE VORTEX STREET

ON THE VORTEX STREET
Visible in the low fog
sweeping across the land,
the winds do not know
where to go.
The islands are no playgrounds ,
 nor the mountains an easy track.
And a straight path does not lure; the islands, too pliant,
and the mountains too high.
The wind on the island, without a hurdle,save for the reeds
and the bushes that lean and make way for the wind
all too facile, the wind wilts;
then veers around;
goes round and round hissing, fuming,
a cat chasing its own tail.
Then suddenly a feat of ingenuity;
the wind ducks , dips down in delight,
as if it sank under its own weight.
A path of vortices formed, whirling ,upward, downward
around an uncertain centre, everywhere, nowhere, all around.
"Gravity, where is the Earth that pulls?"

And now the mountains, they thrust their peaks in the rare sky.
The wind pushes , hikes and rests; the mountains are a wonderful place to nest; no push or pull for a while.
The wind now longs for a rest!
Everything is rare, the breath, the air
the heightened self,
and the vortices form once again. In the summer the clouds are the same, even though they scatter and lose the way.

the wind rises, and with the wind the mountains move ;
their peaks hold back the shifting wind.
Again the saga repeats; the memory of the island
sleeping in the mind
of the wind, awakes;
vortex forms;
sucks the wind in.
One step forward and the vortex swirls; holds the wind
on a downward swing, an upward swing, a vortex here,
a vortex there;
the wind moves on,
on the vortex street.