VOICE OF THE WIND

It isn't as if the wind cannot speak
Sometimes in a whisper
Barely grazing the bougainvillea purple on the porch
sometimes in a breeze
Still the creepers on the front door of our holiday cottage sway to its voice
Creepers still can speak, but only to the foliage underneath
And this evening, while I sit by the poolside
In this warm African sunset
The wind howls
As the sea comes back home
stories, trapped in the crushing waves
Swish, swash, on the wearing down corals beneath our love nest
white sand on this Watamu shores
The soft leaves of the bottle brush graze the back of my neck
caressing my barely there tan
The birds, they chirp the evening away
they too,
have stories to tell
Memories, some sweet, some hot & raunchy, some...they will never tell
And most, I will never know....
my heart longs to hear the tales
of the wind
from far away lands
of the sea, swishing, swaying
going and coming back home
of the creepers on the front door
and the bougainvillea on the porch
of the artsy driftwood so delicately placed above the bed
of the sea shells hanging by the bathroom door
of the canvas painting on the of white arabic walls
I long to hear the stories they can tell
But until then
I shall savor the beauty,
and this stirring within
That comes with the wind, the sea, the birds, the creepers, the bougainvillea......
I shall hide under my thoughts........