There are sedentary signs just before. A magnified expectancy when quietude hangs, still as lint on cobwebs in the corner of the shed. Only an intermittent rustle attends our listening prodromal puffs of wind like the awakening butterfly mistaking glass for air The anarchist trees begin it. A collective fling of leaf, twig then missile branches aimed, it seems, with some deliberation. Runaway detritus follows after barrelling down empty streets slapping, smacking blindly into posts, poles, panes. And there at the stop sign in the now riparian road a river roars past, raging against all confinement. After its all over we’ll breathe relief. Begin afresh, clearing, mending fences picking through broken pieces - but there should be no analogy here no storm's ever contained in a teacup no dust ever really settles. Shards of words hurled cut and scratch insults, injury, blame bullet hole the walls old scores like scars visibly heal over.
One for Open Link Night where anything goes though Grace is host and featuring poems of Louise Gluck who has recently died aged 80. “The advantage of poetry over life is that poetry, if it is sharp enough, may last,” [source]
PoetryPix 