I wrote this poem several years ago – actually many years ago. I remember sitting in my car at the top of a windy Pennines hill to write it. In this poem I look at the monotony and grind of daily life that juxtaposes itself on the beauty that exists within those seemingly mundane moments. Even though each day might feel like the same day, it’s still worth paying attention to the details.
Windy Day As we sit in my car I fold my work-tired mind into a safe shape, listen to the wind turn soft drops into sharp arrows that pierce the armour I am forced to wear. No trees here to break the tide. Another tin-can motors by, four sardines smile at us, a small one waves as the road leans perilously over the hill. Brahms clings helpless to our antenna. No romance here. Grass shivers as heather slow-bakes a stark hill-scape. Our minds follow the same path. We sit alone in my car watching the wild smooth the jagged edge of an endless routine. One helpless magpie surfs swiftly past stitching together yet another part of a windy day.