He brought down the axe
on those prehistoric stones
that had regally edged his flower bed
public and permanent
undisputed leave to rule granted,
planted, for centuries.
Meaning to smash those stones,
dash them down to size
despising their indestructible
smooth confidence, since
his lay shattered,
he refused to be thwarted by disease,
disappointment and a blunt axe.
Raising his game he brought to bear
great anger and frustration,
torn muscles and brittle bones
screaming, tears streaming in rivers
past slivers of stone,
whilst they remained, undiminished
taking pain without complaint.
When this feisty wind blows, how is it?
Will our bonds fall? Our stays loosen?
Will our breath slow? Our fists open?
For sure, our bonds will not fall, nor stays loosen,
nor our breath will slow, nor fists will open.
We must pitch our tent then, tied and tethered?
We must build our base then, trussed and trammelled?
Ah, but unpinioned thought will out and grasp the gale,
shaking the land-lashed by the ears,
unleashing us, in all honesty, blow by whipping blow.