all night high winds,
the slap of rain, flower pots
rolling along the drive, a spruce
brought down in the orchard -
we believe we are safe
behind brick and glass, under tiles,
but in a small corner of our minds
we imagine the roof lifting, the wind
scattering the patterns of our lives
across the Downs, practicing, maybe,
for a time when we'll have to let go.
the slap of rain, flower pots
rolling along the drive, a spruce
brought down in the orchard -
we believe we are safe
behind brick and glass, under tiles,
but in a small corner of our minds
we imagine the roof lifting, the wind
scattering the patterns of our lives
across the Downs, practicing, maybe,
for a time when we'll have to let go.
There has been an unusual amount of wind in the Paris region also, but my wind chimes on the balconies always have a song. I worry living on the top floor, that roof tiles will fly away and leave the rain to infiltrate my apartment. But to spend too much time worrying does no good.
ReplyDeleteI love this. It describes just what it's been like - the gales in the night, the sense that things might be falling apart...
ReplyDeletethe frenzy is quelled into an alertness and hope; that "maybe" in the last verse is lake a thread you can pull it or darn it
ReplyDeletemuch love..
Thanks, alfred, Hilaire, Gillena.
ReplyDeleteGillena - that's a gorgeous metaphor: 'maybe' like a thread you can pull or darn. Stunning image.