The wind is moaning a deep loss,
It howls, wails and shrieks ,
Carrying with it the iciness
That could only be the harbinger
Of a cold, calculated death.

It is quite unremarkable,
This Banshee like demeanour
That the wind has begotten,
On a deceptively bright winter day,
And perhaps it is why the wind unleashes
Its icy fury with a renewed vigour.

The mountains are too far away,
And yet they do not fail to echo
Her moanful, soul crushing wails,
The faintest of which haunt you,
To the very core of your aching bones.

It is a distant cry
From a faraway place,
Deeply buried in the lap
Of that craggy crevice
To which the wind carried its agony,
And in having done that,
Found herself an ally.