a proper poem about the wind

How invisible the road that
brings my soul news
of tempers and drifting love
of passions and hatreds and seedlings just born
of marketplace chatter of fraction and thorn
and for a moment I feel it
till it's shattered and torn
by the banter of Blustery Bill
even whispers from Wishing Well Hill.

Now a swing in the seasons
from Rosehip to Myrrh
sets a pace to the etheral tide
blowing secrets and trystes and truths to be sworn
past the opiate evenings
past a crystal clear dawn
now I know I can feel it
so I'm silently drawn
to the Darlinghurst Rd Kings Cross Fountain
by the breezes from Glorious Mountain.