I clatter dry leaves along dusty footpaths
And bear burdens far greater
Than mere birds and clouds.
On high, cold, moors I blow
In the hollow eyes of sheep, inert and prone,
And ruffle the hissing grass over barrows
Of long-dead chieftains.
From the fading fires of the sick and the dying
I blow prayers in the smarting eyes
Of disinterested and uncaring gods.
I steal your thoughts.