Whither away, little journeying west wind?
Why do you laugh as you skip down the hill?
Linger awhile, for the day is but young yet
Tell us your story, west wind, if you will.
What did you see as you played on the mountains,
Sending the clouds dancing over Barrule?
What did you whisper that gorse-bloom and willow
Are preening themselves in the reservoir pool?
Why did you tarry there coaxing the seagulls,
Then whip up the water to buffet them round;
Setting the river a-swirl with excitement;
Sweeping the larch’s green lace to the ground?
Where did you come from, O mystical west wind,
Laden with perfume from some distant shore?
Wooing the land with the promise of Springtime,
Then sprinkling in mischief, a cold icy shower!
Must you go now, little journeying west wind?
Is there no rest? Can you never be still?
Come again soon, for the fields and the woodlands
Are lonely without you up there on the hill.
(source: Where Curlews Call by Kathleen Faragher (1959); photograph)
