Always the wind.

The lines on my fathers face
were a relief map of the sun
and the wind

He caught the roaring forties
with his skin
so that his face was often
a tumult of arctic cold and
threatening gales.

Mother makes scones
hard as tack
but when we spread the butter
over the heated dough
and dolloped raspberry jam
my mouth would salivate
and I would clap small hands with glee

Standing against
the hem
of a flour smeared
apron
the same one she had had
for twenty years
the smells of our kitchen
permeated into the weave
of green leaves and
fading red rose pattern


I would clutch her leg
as she moved across the lino floor
laughing
pretending to shake me loose

Brushing hair out of her eyes
leaving white flour prints
in the black

My father yells
and the rafters shake
with the promised storms
brooding black cloud and driving rain
coming in sideways through the open window

His voice
a constant thrum of relentless howling
pushing us back
mother out of the kitchen
and into a frowning tight lipped
silence

and I
into the cupboard of my bedroom
where the blankets were stored
and I could curl up on the floor beneath
the heavy flannel
hands clamped to ears
to block out the storm

Sometimes
he passed in the night
and the morning was broken by sunshine
on wet grass
the cold clouds scudding away over the straight
to leave a blue
that hurt to see

Sometimes
he stayed for days
bringing dark early each afternoon
leaving the ground a muddy smear
which would gather on your gum boots
and weigh you down till you could barely walk.

And always
the wind was
in him
around us.