WIND OH WIND   by Annabel Prins

The wind charges everywhere,

Blowing round the crowded village.

The wind is a million sharp dagger's, slicing down the trees,

Running through them with ease,

It feels superior as it rustle's the autumn leaves.

 

 

 

Wind as rough as sandpaper,

Leaving but coming back later.

It feels angry as it blows your face,

Slowing down but picking up pace,

Frustrated when it isn't wanted some place.

 

 

Slow as a snail it never cares what it does,

Always annoying, because:

Fast as a cheetah it blows through open doors,

Also frightening doves.