Poetry (words)


From the headland you can feel the weather turn. You can be blindfolded, but aware that the storm is just hours away. I used to fear the wind, it’s power lashing the land, but its beauty completely escaped me. 

Now I watch the azure turn to grey as the clouds build on the horizon. White horses become wild stallions unleashed, untamed. I feel at home, embracing the storm. A sense of belonging like I was made from this, for this.

My hair whips my face now wet from the spray, a thousand tiny lashes almost electrical. I survey my surroundings with a sense excitement, no money on earth could buy this. 

Wild is the feeling that you can’t explain. The city doesn’t understand, landlocked dreams of semi-detached importance. Wild is the place where I want to remain. 


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