The Talking Village
With both purpose and pen I try to decide,
If the howling and rushing that clatters outside,
Is the desperate chatter or a warning of sorts
From the village that grew me but now leaves me fraught
With a fear so deep yet not for this weather,
That battles my land and screams my dilemma
From the traumatised skies in their battleship grey,
My choice understated - do I go, should I stay?
Weatherboards slap and rattle under gunfire from the rain,
And the eaves stretch and groan while the wind plays its game
With my curious mind as I wonder still further,
Have I the need and the courage to sever this tether?
The elements envelop me as I ponder and walk
Through the layers of terrain that are clearly at war
With the slate sky above, but is this war with me?
Is my childhood village finally talking to me?
This maddening gale injects life to the trees,
They arc towards the beach and I follow their lead.
Their boughs break and splinter, they strain and they creak,
Do they sense my uncertainty, are they trying to speak?
A petulant gust sends sand into my eyes,
Is she reaching and touching - are these my answers in disguise?
The storm whips and lashes, the rain paws at my skin,
As I wait for fate - will my pores let it in?
For a chat and to inform me, to welcome and to warn me,
Or to mock me to shock me, to ridicule and scorn me.
This beckoning and swirling and eddying current
That teases and dances and cavorts with my torment,
Holds the key to the chest in which an unsettled ghost
Just simply wont rest until I’m back at my coast.
The pirouetting maelstrom is all at once still,
As the bantering soundtrack has ran to the hills.
Her talking has ceased, I’m no longer bereft,
She’s bestowed me an answer and all at once left
Me to brood and to think, to muse and decide
If this talking village and the weather outside
Is what I really want - do I go should I stay?
The answer is my question - have I really been away?
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