poetry
The Wind by Stanley Cook
The wind is a wolf That sniffs at doors And rattles windows With his paws. Hidden in the night, He rushes round The locked up house Making angry sounds. He leaps on the roof And tries to drive Away the house And everything inside. Tired next morning The wind’s still there Snatching pieces of paper And ruffling your hair. He quietens down and in the end You hardly notice him go Whispering down the road To find another place to blow. |
The Wind by James Reeves
|
My Tree by Jessie She lives with branches like arms Wide and long they grow, She sings her song of the wind. Leaves rustling like nails clicking, Little flakes of bark peeling just like the skins of desert rocks. She feels wrinkly like a rhino’s skin, She smells like flowers And in the dead of night she waits… |
|