Some trees quiver,
some shake; the Garioch gusts
the locals call it.
It sends women into hysterical fits
and causes men to drown themselves
in bitter ales and hard candy.
Flitters of leaves sometimes fall,
sometimes they stay still,
limp and dead and useless.
I could never see denial
in a smile,
the thought of looking seems trivial.
She doesn't look like I remember.

I don't remember a thing.
Blue eyes?
Parted lips?
A way she spoke that could soften the Armageddon, cure all the famines of the world, cause the ability of humankind to be able to live cohabitationally secure in the knowledge that their neighbour would not do or wish them harm, understand the complex parables and paradoxes my brain would create when all along there was only innocence and my jealousy?
I don't remember a thing.

[Garioch pronounced GEE-ree for all it matters.]