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Along the back fence row,

a quarter of an acre of soil, dry and sandy -

wild asters are growing.

I think they’re asters but I’m not sure.

If they’re not, it shouldn't matter – they seem unconcerned with my confusion

as I stand watching.

Wind, remnants of a strong front -

rolling in from the south

like a sweater of red wool, scratchy and warm.

The wind races across the asters,

forcing them to bend down

where they whisper politely to the sand:

‘I don’t mean to bother you’

the small white flowers say.

‘But this wind is too much for us’.

Finally the wind moves on, racing through the holes in the fence,

down the bank of the tidal creek -

creating ripples on the surface of the incoming tide.