Tonight the wind tries on fancy dress
in the attic rooms of trees,

crinolines and winkle-pickers,
mustachios and swords,

a jewelled fob-watch keeping time
with my shutters’ throb and hum.

Silks crinkle precisely at my window
and, at my door, an ivory cane

is summoning my name.
I ask will anything ever change.

First the trees say ‘No’ to me.
Then the wind says ‘Yes’.