On quiet mornings with pallid skies
when sleep and the air are blue,
the whistle of wind
behind the rattling shutters awaits you.
Thus windows are cranked open,
and the high noon sky is pinned back
by clouds sitting lowly
on the skirt of the sun's lap.
And then the tufts of cotton ascend
on the palms of the afternoon,
and their rise brings a gust
of westward wind and the wuthering moon.
So when that light hangs low
over the spires of towers and trims them with silver,
remember my love is the trail of your seams,
the winding breeze that follows you thither.