A Storm At Midnight

Speak harshly ‘gainst our walls.

Without My Notebook

Wait for words…

The wind weaves.

I sketch the grass.

I write these words to end a tanka.

We must face each fireless night.

Bath-stone built up about the natchrul Avon’s course ‘n curves…

Now mourned’s the passing peace of night, its flight flown with the scorching licks of star-fire at its torn ‘n frayed heels.

Silent morning. Earthly peace. Servant girl re-swaddles.

Soundless stands each stretch of houses.

Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.

The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.

Beneath the raised voices sinks the sound of someone leaving…