Robert Verdon, #22, glad and young

possum-thunder across the tin roof
wakes half of Ainslie, it seems
the rain comes down angry
at the world and cats spat in the
darkest corners of the house
as they have done for decades
and I cannot sleep now for
fretting about the mortality of
it all, and I roll over and dream
of you, there we are always young
enough to forget the earth gaping
or smoke drifting across
the new moon like a witch, and in
the morning I rise and go again,
while you sleep on in the next room,
and over coffee at home I pine for
Elysium.


[Thanks to Sarah St Vincent Welch (#22, 'Tail'),
for sparking this one off!]