five

indefatigable paroxysms of wind
reel in the darkness, dragging
coal rose bushes, ferns, branches
with them as they whirl and wheel and spiral
through the night. black branches
bow, and behind them is a
brick, one-storey house painted
with warm, amber lights.
curtains drawn, door locked tightly,
there is no way the twisting wind
can penetrate its yellow comfort.

dark turquoise cars reflect the
burnished streetlight and look wet,
washed in the dazzling droplets of
chrome light. the night is dry.
dehydrated winds gush, tearing
through the dark stitches and
black silk so carefully sewn.
recklessly, rashly, blindly
they swirl, jolting every cell out of peace.

a child's scratchy cry tumbles
into the night. a little boy in a
red jumper runs outside and his
shouts run out of his mouth,
carried by the gusts of cold air
onto the parched waves of darkness.
high-pitched, clear screams
of toy-happiness loop
and twirl along in the air.
children are out on the front porch in
pitch-blackness, knocking on
the creamy door to go back
into the honeyed warmth.
doors open and shut with low thuds.

here i am, dice hanging from my ears,
drifting in and out of the darkness
on the other side of my fingerprinted window.
it's my pied-a-terre.
written: Saturday 11th September 2004, 8:52pm.