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, 
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.

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