With Beauty and Silk Like Grace

With beauty and silk-like grace,      
the cat sleeps upon her face.
Not only with the fire on,
but with the clothes hanging long.
Off the horse and on carpet,
a draft does but only whip.
Up from the woodcut door,
Along the floor and up the wall.
Down past the cat so sprawled,
across the rug, across the lawn.
Of wool and fluff, of warmth and lust,
the wind does not stop, nor cut.
Out from around the room,
around the house, past the broom.
Leant upon the wall so steep,
a spider holds on, just by feet.
The wind joins its brother, its sister,
outside in virgin twister.
Licking the walls with rage and fury,
undecided, like a jury.
Whether to stop or to carry on,
Move to France, move to Cannes.
To hassle those with money and fear,
to hassle those with love and tear.
To hassle those without a care,
To capture those within a snare.
The snare of society, or government,
realisation of wonderment.
To find out their own person
whilst the wind does only worsen.
Find out now and find out young,
that you are one of many among
many a undecided man
that toils in trouble and toils in fear.

Listen to the wind outside,
to where it goes, to where it hides.
Around the corner, under the bench,
It waits for you, it waits to drench
you in rain and you in leaf.