Through the moor she whistles,
heartless intent disrupts the night.
Windows rattle, trees sway,
cries echo in the deserts.
Screams rise from the ocean,
a moonlit stride brings a chill.
Creating a breeze, her presence haunting,
restless in her journey.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 23rd, 2026 06:25
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, Paul Bell
- In collections: delayed telecast.
Offline)
Comments5
At first reading this made me think of the wind itself but upon seeing the part that said a breeze creates I wondered and then seeing the collections title it makes more sense to think of a broadcast. Bad news travels fast, faster than the wind. Yes it does whistle and disrupts the night. A haunting poem my friend.
Astutely excellent! Thanks, dearest Soren 🕊️🙏🏻
You are always most welcome dear friend
arqios, this carries a cold edge from the first line. The mood settles in fast…bleak, wind-cut, unsettled. It feels elemental and haunting. Very powerful, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
'She' sounds like KP! heehee. Good write A.
A cold wind is a blowing.
Usually the metaphor for the Monday morning train cancellation tanoy announcement.
You have captured the almost subconscious personification of certain winds I feel sometimes. Definitely.
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