The Writer in a Storm by Suzy Davies

 

 

She sits at a window,

that faces the park,

the daylight is fading,

to almost dark.

It’s almost deserted

as people return

to their flats and houses

to find the warm.

 

She glimpses through raindrops

on the window pane,

hearing the rush

of a long distance train,

and onto the skylights

the rainwater beats

as she gazes below

at the shiny wet streets.

 

The rainwater gurgles

down all the gulleys,

the rush-hour commuters

are all in a hurry.

The traffic lights blink

and cars surge straight ahead

as flashes of lightning

crash overhead.

 

She stands at the window,

looks up at the sky,

and hears rolls of thunder,

cleaving the sky.

The wind through the park

it gathers up speed,

and the lounge carpet’s

lifting

under her feet.

 

Silent and still

she watches the scene

like a black and white movie,

on the silver screen

as a trio of students

flag down a car

to take them to lodgings,

not very far.

 

She paces the room as the thunderclouds

roar,

louder, more angry,

than they were before.

She rolls down the blind

with a fair hand that shakes,

arranges her hair,

lights her cigarette.

Then, the doorbell, it rings,

and she’s there at the step,

as a caller – her lover,

comes in from the wet.

 

I sit at the window,

opposite the park,

watch comings and goings

until it is dark.

The kettle is on

and I have company;

my cat and computer,

the storm and the sea.

 

Suzy Davies, Copyright 2018. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

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