Windmill Dreams

What was the noise that woke me from my sleep
intent and listening in a silent room?
No clash or clatter; a caress, a sweep
describes the sound that trembled through the gloom.
Moving across the bedroom wall, a form
illuminated only by the faint
lamps in the street. A harbinger of storm,
leaf-light and turning, restless as a saint
denied his martyrdom. I close my eyes,
remembering tall shapes on distant hills,
electric power drunk from moving air.
And on my wall, the shadow's newest guise:
metallic vanes of whirling, giant mills
swing low and brush against my tangled hair.

--for Read Write Poem's NaPoWriMo prompt #27: acrostic
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