Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

       Every morning  the  wind  tells me I should be sorting myself out. Sometimes the wind gets angry at my lethargy and shouts. She threw a plant pot of mine off the window-sill once as a warning.  So why can’t I just do it?  Wouldn’t it be easier once and for all to just do it and shut her up for good? I get so frightened. I can’t do anything, that’s the thing. Like paying the bills. I put them in a pile, ready for when my cheque comes through, and before I’ve realised, the time’s all gone. The wind seems to move it on and then wipe away my memory.  Even when I leave notes for myself it’s not foolproof because she blows them away.  Even post-it notes.  And now I’m supposed to be sorting myself out, getting myself settled.  But I need money for that.  What’s the good of her ranting if she won’t give me some practical help?  Well, that’s what I used to think.  But I should never have doubted her, because she came through for me in the end.

       I was at work and Ray was collecting money for a leaving present.  He was always a bit absent minded, and he’d just popped out, leaving some of the cash on his desk.  I didn’t even think about it till a breeze made one of the fivers rustle.  Of course!  How could I have been so stupid?  I nipped over and slid the note into my pocket. Not too much, so I wouldn’t attract attention.  Of course I know that next time it probably won’t be so easy.  Maybe the money will be hidden, or in somebody’s purse.  But the wind will direct me. There’ll be that familiar rushing in my ears, blowing me this way and that, showing me the way.  And sometimes it’ll escalate to a thunderous roar when there’s something particularly worth having.