East Wind, you give yourself away, you’ve blown your cover.
Something lacking sentience could not produce such beauty.
Your sandstone etching demonstrates deft touch, good taste,
Which spears my heart, arrests my feet, this morning on my way.
Usually, you’ve gained my notice with your childish paddy.
The pushing over trees and stamping round to kick dust in my eyes
Admittedly, in gentler mood, you’ve kissed my brow, wiped sun-wrought sweat,
Yet here to my surprise and pleasure I discover your artistic side.
Millennia ago this once-seabed, savage-torn from mother’s breast,
Attacked, defaced, by vandal waves while in their reach,
Offended that fine sensibility, asked for your remedial hand.
Each visit you amend a little, striving for that cruel mirage perfection
I would say your work’s as close as anyone can get.