The wind is skeeting the tired tide,
the slow surface of low waves,
blowing it away from shore
in fast running sheets like hidden shoals
escaping the shallowing land.

Above, it seizes a sycamore tree,
lookout on the cliffs,
ballooning in its branches,
sending wild signals
with its blowabout hair.

The swifts are racing it,
tossing their bodies high
before they swoop to find its sinew.

It shakes and sifts the banked bracken,
whistling through grass
and nettle feathers at its edge.

The wind is highly strung tonight,
whirling skirts and stamping feet,
shape-shifting the landscape
in random acts of passion.