I’m everywhere and nowhere, constantly
In motion. There’s an air of mystery
About me; where I come from, where I’m bound;
They say that if you whistle, I’ll be found,
But though I may be harnessed, ridden, named
And farmed (or even trapped) I shan’t be tamed.
I will submit to touch and taste and smell;
You’ll hear me, too, but you will never tell
My whereabouts by looking; all you’ll see
Is where I pass, by weathercock or tree.
When I am One you’ll hardly know I’m there;
But when I’m Twelve, and fully grown, I’ll tear
The slates from roofs, bring trees down in the wood;
Yet I’ll be doing someone, somewhere good;
For when I have expended all my power
I’ll waft a seed or pollinate a flower.
I’m fickle, always rushing high to low,
My soft caress becomes a sudden blow.
Sometimes I’ll turn against you; in your face
I’ll slow your bicycle to walking-pace
And force your yacht or sailing ship to tack:
But you’ll be flying with me at your back.
Maybe too easy. But it’s been a tough day.