The wind’s gift

Here on Block Island (which has the possibly the most expensive power costs in the USA, and the most ecologically stupid, powered by diesel oil which is painstakingly tankered here by the boat) there has been endless debate about the possibility of having an off-shore windfarm. Much of the delay comes from vociferous folk who think any wind farm would spoil their views or add unwelcome sound levels. As if the technology had never been tried out anywhere before, as if the places where windfarms exist were not (in my opinion anyway) made more stunningly beautiful by the turbines rising majestically and gracefully skywards. I have lived near Cornwall’s north coast farm and New Zealand’s Tararua ranges farm.

Written mid-december 2012, while the community is still talking.

The Wind’s Gift


The rushes have turned brown.
Now burnt bacon crispiness
rustles, crackles in the wind
The soft feathers
a month past have flown.
Beyond the near sound
a seagull rises from the pond
lifting its squawk beyond
the waves sussuration.

A snick, as each long stick
rush bends to find its place
clicks a return.
Sun glitters off the wavelets
Sighing whispering
over and over every sound
ceaselessly resonant.
A plane hums its wasp buzz
and car tyres offer
their whoosh on the road to town.

Unremitting the wind
comes by my eardrum
thrumming deep with endless
mindless babel all around.
I am here, I am wind,
Take my gift.
Let me add new sound
beautiful low belling
register somewhere
between the wave and the swamp

Let me bring new wonder:
the wind farm.
Harmonious grace
outstanding here.
Make this my gift.

I would like to hear what you think of this. Please tell me

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