The wind blows where it pleases - a poem as we approach Pentecost

We think we know the wind.

We name it: breeze, scirocco, hurricane.

We forecast it, in miles per hour, direction stated.

We measure it and picture its destructive force.

We harvest it with ancient mills and modern turbine fields,

turning it to human purposes.

We set up windbreaks, windvanes, windscreens

and shelter from its blasts.

We think we know the wind.

We turn it into flowing, forceful words

and send it whispering, murmuring,

howling, roaring and whistling round our world.

Clouds go scudding, autumn leaves swirling,

birds are carried aloft,

the moonglade on the night-time water ripples,

and cold is brought from distant east or sand from Saharan south.

We think we know the wind.

The breath of God that moved upon the void,

made bushes burn, and spoke through prophets‘ lips,

and moved a man to dance;

the power of God that came at Pentecost,

gave courage and conviction to a motley crew,

and seals our hearts with love divine

til end of time.

But caution,

for this Wind chooses its own course,

its gentleness or mighty force,

its word and action and divine impulse.

This Wind we cannot fully know,

or tame, or harness, chart, predict.

But let it come, and sweep us up, with whisper, roar, and loving touch,

and let it fan the fire within that burns to bless and brighten all.

I took the video below while sitting in the copper-beech cathedral a couple of days ago, when the wind was indeed roaring in the trees. It’s fairly quiet at the start, but wait for the gusts to come through!