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The Writer in a Storm by Suzy Davies

She sits at a window,
that faces the park,
the daylight is fading,
to almost dark.
It’s almost deserted
as people return
to their flats and houses
to find the warm.

She glimpses through raindrops
on the window pane,
hearing the rush
of a long distance train,
and onto the skylights
the rainwater beats
as she gazes below
at the shiny wet streets.

The rainwater gurgles
down all the gulleys,
the rush-hour commuters
are all in a hurry.
The traffic lights blink
and cars surge straight ahead
as flashes of lightning
crash overhead.

She stands at the window,
looks up at the sky,
and hears rolls of thunder,
cleaving the sky.
The wind through the park
it gathers up speed,
and the lounge carpet’s
lifting
under her feet.

Silent and still
she watches the scene
like a black and white movie,
on the silver screen
as a trio of students
flag down a car
to take them to lodgings,
not very far.

She paces the room as the thunderclouds
roar,
louder, more angry,
than they were before.
She rolls down the blind
with a fair hand that shakes,
arranges her hair,
lights her cigarette.
Then, the doorbell, it rings,
and she’s there at the step,
as a caller – her lover,
comes in from the wet.

I sit at the window,
opposite the park,
watch comings and goings
until it is dark.
The kettle is on
and I have company;
my cat and computer,
the storm and the sea.

Suzy Davies, Copyright 2018. All Rights Reserved.

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