November Streets
acrylic / canvas

I wonder if he'll come
from his tired old den
where familiar things are locked in place
and never moved when he's not there.
Where the air like his life
is still and free from turbulence
and colour.

Will the gate
at the end of my garden path
be like the portcullis above castle moat.
Will the way be fraught
with perilous thoughts.
Could my hedge be a trap with no escape
and my house a temple to a foreign god.

If he hears a dog bark
might he turn and flee.
Do the night garden flowers
have an alien scent
and what happens when he knocks
upon my door,
will the sound echo down
to his very core.

Why would he possibly want to come
and leave his home
for November streets
and walk to the cliff
where his life might change . . .
but I think he might
and the porch light is on . . .
and I think I heard the latch on the gate.