As the leaves were ripped from the trees one wild weekend, and a paper cup scuttled down the street, and the clouds were driven by, and the concrete towered high, and the feathers of a hat were bowed, and the sound of drums echoed, and the rifles saluted, and the cannons rolled, and the crowds were seated and cowed, and the carriages rocked all through the city, the house was silent. Did the walls creak? Did the draughts whisper? Did the bells ring? Did the door knock? No. She looked at him and he at her, and all was good.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts