The wind combs the land, the trees, the bushes.
The slow growing vegetation drawn into shape
By the prevailing winds that blow.
On a still day, the trees tell the wind’s story
And the weather it may bring.
In Devon, the trees and bushes turn their backs to the south west.
The strongest winds blow from there,
From across the Atlantic,
Forced by the cyclones that so often batter.
The cyclones that bring the moist, cool, maritime winds.
Winds that blow our hair so wildly.
Winds that sculpt the plants so slowly.
As if with hair gel,
The plants stick.
Permanently telling us about the weather we most often see.