Nocturne

A ladder in front of me, a roaring fire behind.

Now and then, now and then comes a fool such as I.

L throws little granules on the floor

and keeps marching up and down the room.

The smell of wood smoke. A vase of garden flowers.

Use it or lose. The writing muscle atrophies.

A car draws up along the road, red indicator light

winking in the early dusk. The clouds descend

lower over the moors, over the fields.

Why not write? Why not reflect? Why not try?

The wedge-shaped log burns with slender tongues

of orange flame licking over its edges.

Writing is keeping myself company

without it I grow lonely, empty, dull.

Nobody else can say what I say.

I say all the flower stalks are tangled underwater,

I say flowers in October are a joyful thing.

I say maybe everything's gonna be alright.

Mother myself, support myself, believe in myself.

The elder tree so cold and green, the wind blowing

back its leaves like the feathers of a stranded bird.

I can't remember why I came in this room, says L.

I can't remember why I came in this world.

The bus drives past, the legend Old Town B glowing

above the driver's head, windscreen wipers

smoothing away raindrops, like stick insect mothers.