Henry scratching
Through the clanking gate near the Atlantic’s edge
The wind she sings her tune
On a still day
A faint murmur of a song
Whistling gently through the pipe
Growing louder with the gales now
She shrilly raises her voice for all around to hear
Just an irritated donkey is her usual audience
Who battered and alone is immune to her melodies
The ocean pushing her opinion through the metal tube
Forcing it to be heard, insisting; we dare ignore
Such a mighty choir of waves, death and vastness
As if all that ever met her are now reaching out
In the vocal chords of her soul
An odd tune, she whistles, more a plea than a note
But listen I do, to hear what she has to say
On this cold, damp day of grey
With a wind whipped up longing for a band to play
With her mournful chorus, you sense all she wants is
To be heard, at last, through the gate she tries and tries and tries.

© Angela Dunning, 22 February 2015

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