by Elain Edwards
The South–Easter has howled throughout the night
Shaking the windows and rattling the door,
Dear Lord, the sound is one that I abhor,
it seems like ghosts are wailing out in fright.
During the day my new-washed sheets take flight,
flap from my hands to land up on the floor,
or wind around the line in knots before
I subdue them and peg them down so tight.
But that same wind that roars around my head,
is joy to many surfers out at play.
They ply their kites like seasoned matadors.
Beneath their sails of purple, blue or red,
they race before the waves at Little Bay
and in the wind’s embrace they swoop and soar.