The Howling

Today the wind died down
and the cicadas chorused again
as you brushed your tangled hair in the mirror,
remarking lightly how this time
it might stay till you reached the pool.
I smiled a thin, weather-beaten smile,
choosing not to forget the howls and moans
that had assailed my ears over the past four days.
 
Peter Goulding

If you have any comments on this poem, Peter Goulding would be pleased to hear them.