by Peter Miles
Grass like small feet following,
wind-worried. Wind in Moreton figs
through leaves hand-broad, thick, stiff, through boughs
soft clumsy, loutish, knotted, wind roar-loud
in undertones, congealed in trees, and suddenly
shrill-free again. In pines it sings
a high clear note, in palms it creaks,
rubs, rustles all the night: one tells what tree by wind sound. In the Moreton figs
along the river, roar, loud and deep
and dully warped, unlovely, menacing. And grass
like small feet following.
Peter Miles (1942).