Moved By The Wind

A precious flower

held out into the airy window of the world,

the eye of it eyeing me.

. . . . .

In its own way the body of it pantomimes the lift and thrust of a helicopter's propellor. Round and round the face of it easefully quickens like one's heart sometimes pleasantly races. For a split second the blades of it feel as if they might advance upwards to where the clouds have been painted over by a lovely sky blue. My body shivers with excitement because I too feel like I could be carried away, hovering above my world midst that sky awash with light. And – for the briefest of seconds, the pinwheel and I are gone… 

But then all too soon, from the opposite direction of its billowing sail I hear a voice that sounds like my mother's call. From over my shoulder I search out her shout that seems to be getting louder. The strain of it pulls me away from the movement of that fiery red form towards the image of home…