Tormented I am
by the tempest wind tossing,
windbound and wanton
together we stand,
His touch in my hair
like some galleon at crossing,
bound to the sea and yet turned to the
land.
Swirling around me
his voice is a whisper
rising from silence to passionate roar,
lilac and shadow my bed and my raiment,
I'll have no other lover but the wind
on the moor.
For though he is wild
and will never be tamed,
yet barefoot against the grasses below,
I know he will meet me and dare to be
named,
and thus to the wind will I evermore go.
And hear his voice keening
a lost lovers lament,
from the cliffs on the edge
of
the inconstant sea,
I will yet have no other
than the wind for my lover,
and someday perhaps, he will love only
me....