The mournful wind

The winds whine and grope
As if they’re searching for something
In high pitched choirs they sing
While flying through hills and down slopes

To my nose and ears they cling
Until their grasp is torn off with a sharp sting
To wander amidst the air so cold, and mope.

Twisting and turning they reach out with cold hands
Through quiet towns and misty lands
And take hold of whatever strays
From that which keeps the wind away

It searches all throughout the night
Singing mournful songs with cold clasping fright