This Wind – Penny Drysdale

it is the only thing we have
in common
this wind
this nephew
this son
this mother this father
these candles we light
this wind that blows them all out
this water won’t come won’t come
this desert
this wind
brings clouds
and takes them away
grass blowing like hair
sand lifting
a body without edges
such tender erosion
before us a tower with stairs
an aspiration to be higher
names engraved in
rock eroding
sun pushing us under
desert oaks
those great mothers
one limb broken
a fringe of her hair
hanging over earth
sweeping it
it takes them
this wind
they want waves
deep blue
white froth
salt to sting
and liven their eyes
they are under this sky still
painted in their own colours
high on that horizon
all those dunes between us
they might be calling to us
voices lost
but all we see
is hair blowing
thrashing their faces
thrashing all our faces