“Dover. Wight. Portland. Plymouth.
Southwesterly. Storm force ten.”
Season of soggy letters,
collapsed fences, and thrashing trees.
“Imminent.”
Buffeted from a filigree path,
I’m woken unawares
to roam other neural tracks,
startled by lightning synapses
in rainy night.
From a broken gutter
cloudburst spills onto concrete.
At the junction of sound and light:
the cadence of your name,
rising and falling.
“Visibility:
moderate locally poor.”
Jack-knifing across the highway,
an artic gouges tyre ruts
in the verge of memory.
Thunder. Counting seconds
to measure the distance we’ve come.
Down those roads not taken
I lunch with your ghost, the unfledged stirring
of wind-blown thought.
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