On Seeing the Wind at Hope Mansell

Whether or not shadows are of the substance

such is the expectation I can

wait to surprise my vision as a wind

enters the valley: sudden and silent

in its arrival, drawing to full cry

the whorled invisibilities, glassen towers

freighted with sky-chaff; that, as barnstorming

powers, rammack the small

orchard; that well-steaded oaks

ride stolidly, that rake the light-leafed ash,

that glowing yew trees, cumbrous, heave aside.

Amidst and abroad tumultuous lumina,

regents, reagents, cloud-fêted, sun-ordained,

fly tally over hedgerows, across fields.