Untitled

Barn doors

Swing Wide

Fetchingly

Then violently

Lusting after the wind

They pitch and buckle

The howling is a Siren call

Demanding a reaction

Swift and without hesitation

Squealing metal as the rails

Give way

Wood splinters

Peeling layers

Folding onto itself

In a dance of desire

Self-fulfilling

Melting together

To answer the summons

The Howling Wind’s Fury

No latch can defend

This wicked end

Up Up Up

Higher they rise

Like red petals in flight

Stripped from the solitude

Of their lonely vigil

To house the farmer’s pride

The smell of hay whirling

Dust devils join the fray

Anxious mewing from frightened animals

Helplessly exposed

Their protectors have the battle lost

The Mother Storm

Cannot subside

Until the tribute is paid

In full

Wood, stone, brick and mortar

Crumble at Her feet

The tranquility will descend

Once again

But the hallowed gates

Will be no more