BIRD WEATHER

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She blew in on the Northerly,

and perched like a raven

in the corner of his heart.

With his blackbird soul,

his arms curled up across his chest
for protection,

he tried to shoo her off.

But the way she stayed

spoke to him,

and he dared to try again.

There were storms.

There are always storms.

But then the weather would clear.

The sunny days would lull them

For a time.

He was dark, craggy, beautiful

as an old mountain,

feet in the clay, head in the clouds,

his heart a wide expanse of yearning

for happiness elusive,

though it was right there 

in his grasp.

She was tentative as 

an early morning mist,

all hope and promise, yet fearful

of the fragile nature of vapour,

and its tendency to slip away.

There was heartbreak.

There is always heartbreak,

two souls too frightened to trust

what they had found.

She flew out

on the Westerly,

headed for the sea.

In old age,

she remembers his face,

so dark and beautiful above her,

the blue sky over his shoulder

on the rooftop

on summer afternoons.

The weather of love

is so changeable.

It requires more faith

than  injured hearts can give.

for Paul's prompt at Real Toads: the weather