The Poetry of
Jack Scott


I’ve come, said wind, without a word,
swooping from the sky to land
as trees, hysteric, curtsy low.
Have you missed me?
Ravaging dry leaves,
raising dust in graveyards
it rasped among the head stones
eroding chiselprint away ,
stinging what time had only mussed.


613 ®Copyright 1956 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.