BIRD WEATHER

source

She blew in on the Northerly,

and perched like a raven

in the corner of his heart.

With his blackbird soul,

his wings folded 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 and craggy,

as beautiful and weathered

as an old mountain,

feet in the clay, head in the clouds,

his heart a wide expanse of yearning

for high skies,

though his wings could not remember

how to fly.

  

She was ephemeral as 

early morning mist,

along the mountain's shoulders.

The nature of vapour is 

tentative;

it has a 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

how the doves cooed at dawn,

a glimpse of 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 Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Weather. This is a new poem, re-worked from an old one. Right now, after a very long dry winter and spring, with our rainforest drying up, we are finally getting some rain, to our great relief.