Voices of the Wind
My father, Lawrence Burton, wrote poetry and folksy stories for our local weekly newspaper back in the 80’s and 90’s. This morning as I listened to the howling wind and watched my golden retriever quake with fear, I was reminded of this gem. My father liked the poetry of Edgar A Guest and this was written in a similar cadence and style. I hope you enjoy the poem and the windy day that we have in store for this Tuesday, my birthday.
Voices of the Wind
When I was young and scary,
And all filled up with fright,
I could see all kinds of creatures
“Round my bedside in the night;
And I’d pray that dawn and sunshine
Would, somehow, my sorrows end,
As I laid in bed and listened
To the SCREAMING of the wind!
Like a freight train’s eerie whistle,
That sound would seem to be,
And I knew some big old black thing
Was a’reaching out for me;
And I’d peek out from the “kivers,”
Like a raccoon from its den,
As I laid there all a’trembling,
At the WHISTLING of the wind!
Oh, I was brave enough by day
And I’d often “take a dare,”
There wasn’t a river I wouldn’t swim
And I ‘splored caves everywhere,
But on windy nights I wondered
If that THING was there again,
As I gave my rapt attention,
To the CRYING of the wind!
And when the wind was howling,
I could see the wolves in pack
With their vicious eyes upon me
And their breathing at my back.
Then I’d struggle all the harder
To escape them once again
As I sprang upright and listened
To the HOWLING OF THE WIND!
So whenever thunder rumbled,
And the wind began to growl
I just knew those wolves were waiting,
To begin their nightly prowl.
Then “Old Rex” would start to whimper,
And my nerve would start to bend
As I laid there–heart a’pounding,
At the GROWLING of the wind!
But now that I am older,
And no longer fear the wind,
I feel that something’s missing,
When the sounds of night begin
And I crave a journey backward,
To recapture, if I can,
One more night of wild excitement,
‘Mid those VOICES of the wind!
(C) 1984 Lawrence R. Burton
Patricia Temples Photography 
What a wonderful and evocative poem, Pat.
Happy Birthday from the North Country…
Thanks, Carl! Got any wind in your neck of the woods?
Pat, I love the poem. I just knew as a child that things were there in the room. Happy birthday in good health. Love, sue
Sue, my dad used to read “Little Orphant Annie” to us after dinner, and it was about “them big ‘ole black things” that would “get you if you don’t watch out.” It scared me silly and I’d beg him not to read it. My imagination ran rampant at night in my room alone, and thanks to the opening to the attic that was in my bedroom closet, I knew they were lying in wait for me to go to sleep.