Rain remakes night
as another country.
To my high window
above the street
rise the swish of tyres
skimming bitumen,
slick of headlamps,
heels' tic-tac
hurrying nervously home
past the dim, dripping park.
A muted metropolitan hum
resonates from beyond the river;
skies are lowering
mantles of cloud,
parachutes of condensing vapour.
Hollowing out
this hive of light
after rain has eased
is my favourite hour.
The witching hour
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110022801517
Свидетельство о публикации №110022801517
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