The Storm

There is comfort in the storm that hammers at your window
As you lie there with your face on the cold side of the pillow.
You clutch at your own skin while it begs to be let in
And you are almost tempted… peering
Around the curtain to where the bins lie overturned and emptied,
To where lamps stare into deep London puddles and
A caught-out couple shelter, huddled, beneath a tower of darkened rooms.
It’s familiar as it was in your dad’s Volvo but that doesn’t make it easier,
Branches barer than they were yesterday as you wish the night away.
But you don’t let it in.
You draw the curtains and you lie back down,
Listening and waiting and smiling with your eyes closed.


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