Feb 8th

Wind
a)
It hasn't stopped all day.  It began in the darkness of night,  The wind has been driving against car doors, in danger of breaking their locks. Hedge rows have been a frenzy of whipping twigs, buffeting small birds that shelter there.  Sheep shelter under rocks, the lea of hills, behind stone walls, even beside old frail fence posts.  The devil's spume is raised to force the water from the rains back up the hills from where they came.  Seared grasses and grey heathers pulse like waves upon the moors.  The waters on the shores smash down and fresh or salt the surface of the lochs is white with spume of breakers large and small.
The sound assaults the ears from chimney, windows' edge and door frame.  It sings, hums, whistles and screams.
And, when it will stop, we shall wake at the silence.
Small birds fly low, if fly they do.  The rabbits venture out but are soon forced back forlorn and wet into earthen tunnels.
The eagle will not be seen today.

b)
It has the power to pick up trees, to bend and break them too. As I turn a corner, I must lean upon it, if I am to venture forward, but know its breath is fickle and could let me fall.  The gale-force demands respect and caution.

In matters of rest: -  ( WOHW prompt)
I would rest upon my laurels only I never won any.  I have often wondered if laurel does in fact make for a comfortable bed and whether the winning of accolades makes sleeping any easier.
  After all as Shakespeare pointed out "Uneasy lies the head…etc"  Anyway these days what constitutes  laurels?  Patently not a knighthood,  at least in the current climate.  Being a celebrity?  Much denigrated for being all froth and no substance.  What then of substance? Wealth and money?  Certainly a route to power,  but then Power is well known as a corrupter.
So maybe accolades and fame are not the way.
Well, it is back to the hot drink and good book for me (and you can interpret that in anyway you like!) and, if I wake in the witching hours, I'll not worry about a lack of sleep or rest but amuse myself by enumerating the "laurels"  that life may yet bring, none of which can make me more or less.