These Winds

These winds, my earth, my sea, my sky,
Forever breathe their final word.
These leaves, my hours, ever fly
And each one a befuddled bird

Who in the gale has lost his flock
And settles on an unmade bough,
Or perches on the silent rock
And cries, "My mother, where art thou!"

These sails I turn and yet the winds
Alone, in time, my course do set.
One voyage ends, another begins;
I take the wheel in hand and yet

It is these winds which move me and
The lapping of the surging tide.
And though the stretch of sea I've spanned
Is shallow, neither nor deep, nor wide,

I have the Mariner's glittering eye,
The Dutchman's grim and plodding gait,
And hold it folly asking Why;
There is no Why; there is but Fate.

But still, these winds have blown for good
More often than I dare would say.
That so, I wonder if I should
Wish loud: "Winds, blow another way!"

George Chadderdon © 2000