after Derek Mahon
The town arcade is teatime dark.
Along its kerb, dead leaves
wind whipped, are swept to mush.
Naked branches thicken with light –
a star shell burst.
Then another and another.
Does falling debris understand
where it may safely land?
The path it follows is least time
least energy,
cares not how fragile shelter is.
Nor how long you’ve glared
at shop windows – cursing
under your breath – their endless choice.
But no blank slate for sale.
The person you wanted to be
is somewhere else,
translating whispers into peace.
xii. 2023
