A damp night of it; no window
keeps out the widower's wind.
The flame spits, dies on the hearth.
Rain rails. Devils billow
black against glass of the mind,
wash out lit sticks. The path
up to the café's shook door
swills with water. The cell
sunk in the park like a pit
in Jerusalem fit for
drowned Jeremiah, swells
and entombs. Lightning's hit
what's left of the café two mock
-ers had burnt to a char for a bet.
Yet a damp pair were buoyed
there tonight by some bloke who broke
the bread the three of them ate:
he must have come in from the void.
o'Lent (26), Stride
© Brian Louis Pearce
This page last revised 29 October 2000