Wind

I A word is raised inside the heart, The body drifts with sighs, postures placed, Each sound bends into another— Who steals, who comes? Talking— Raven, quick spectators Into wounds: on pines, in whirls, with cry.

II Above pressing tight, only murmurs, Vibrations go; wind shifting inside Not wild, not wicked, absorbed in breaths Until this lends to flesh boundwards,

III

In all collected sounds of night Over rhythms, a shrine sensing close, The night howls drink dark colors free. It is rising, above disciplines.

IV A world both ancient and cryptic awaits To sail like whispers. At any moment it snarls and bends into light; —

• Ted Hughes