The storm came today.
I waited in the garden for it.
Wind rumbled around the house
talking through the gate, the fence,
the bamboo chimes we bought,
banging against their separateness:
nothing more than the ghost
of unreported rainfall in the air.
Pay attention, said the gate.
Do not be angry, said the fence.
This is what you came for, said the road.
You are a body, said the rain.
The wind chimes banged together
as when a river flows out
under low-glinting sun. A tear track
reflecting dusk, mirror white.
No water between its banks
Stir the curry pot
warming on the stove
while passing to get wood.
Torch in hand, stars are familiar.
Arms full, into the warm.
Building the fire, small bits first,
a mite crawls on kindling.
Lift one piece out.
Everything is already aflame.
Orion hung in the skylight, empty from anywhere but this blue dot
so I lay under his broad-shouldered body, light years tall.
He stalked the plain – stronger than coincidence,
nonchalant like David – while I lay on carpet,
torso mirroring his, palms open to the night,
wondering how to honour what I seek.
When the body is dust,
the stone you kicked
walking the woods after rain
ruminating about work
won’t lie off the path
because it met your shoe.
No reasons. No metadata.
Nothing remembers like we do.
Breath hisses like a burning log.
The cracked black wood burns red,
smouldering in a deep iron heart.
Too much air, it flares and flickers out.
Too little, it starves and we get cold ash.
But when the grate is open well enough
it breathes hot and constant.
Sometimes a blister, a spark, a crack.
Mostly nothing but silent, black heat
warming the room without display or cease.