Maybe

Have you ever been caressed by the winds of the Sahara? I have. There are days, like today, when the wind blows strongly from the deep south, carrying on its wings the fine, red dust of Africa. Some say that people do strange things when this wind blows. I can well believe it. For it is a fey wind; howling and moaning like an enraged jinn. We are completely at its mercy and bear the full brunt of its fury. For there is nothing but a hundred miles of frenzied waves between here and there.

But I don’t want to be talking about one of our winds again – they come and go as they please. Nor do I feel compelled to talk about what  transpired in London this past week. But I cannot ignore it – it weighs me down. I feel as if the world around me is slowly going mad. Fey, like the south-west wind.

In the face of one tragic event after another, I have lost the ability to feel anything except an intense anger coupled with a mind-numbing realisation that some ugly clouds have started to gather on our collective horizon. It makes me wonder whether we have the power to change the course the world has taken. Or are we just cogs in a wheel, playing our part until it’s time for our final curtain?

I have reached a point where I am turning off or tuning out of anything that I do not want to see or hear. Maybe I am just like an ostrich, with its head in the sand. Maybe I am just ignoring the inevitable or maybe it’s just my method of self-preservation; of retaining my sanity. Maybe … Maybe the answer is out there somewhere, blowing on the wings of a fey, fey wind.

Written in memory of Lee Rigby, 2nd Battalion, Royal Regiment of the Fusiliers,   murdered on the streets of London

May 22nd, 2013

I could have posted photos of angry, dust filled clouds but I thought that these beautiful Cornish poppies would be more appropriate.

English Poppies, Mawgan Porth, Cornwall