Stephen Emmerson

a headache before rain

We argue again
The light pressing down —
Ivy on the house guessing
Which door will be shut next
A bowl of beans dries out
On the bench, a few brown leaves
Crust into its mess
And just down the road
The grey walls whisped with iron
Turn into colonnades.
Knowing each other well
They return, smoke filling the room
But the mint on the sill retains its taste
They are stern now
Faces wracked with distance
Longing for a touch of breath

A headache before rain
Sleeping in soft red light
The lampshade moving  a bit
From the carpet tap of feet
Between clouds, the light evaluates
Skin cells and pores
Outside, a police van stops,
The sirens reverberating
And so much so
The smell of rosemary
She sits, cup burning her lips as
A strand of silk from a
Spiders abdomen stretched
From one of her hairs to a
Distant bell            brings
One step closer
The void