I have made it home. Well, almost.
Feel cold prints of rain on my skin.
There's the orange flashing of air
argument of thunder at the ridges,
above the city plain.
These compel me, begin to overtake me.
But I make it with the dusk
street lights, door glow, home haze.
My eyes are black, weirded
with doctor drops, laser tracks
percussive sheets of storm.
Across the street Ali screams his game
the others tease, Kahmel akimbo
wide brother Bilal ripples exclamations
at a distance, ball thuds on concrete.
We are all waiting for the storm
for it to break above us
or move on.
Our lives persist below and beyond
the thunder, and the planes
more constant in their paths above us
no longer haunting streets
to the north of the bridge.
Broody, intermittent, inevitable
as the kids rattle on
rain comes slowly but Ali's voice
high-pitched, constant, still hardly knowing
is the temper of this half hour.
The fridge is humming and a gate clangs
and though the storm is fading
there is one loud crack
sky still capable
and rain hurries at last on the gravel.
Poems from 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'
Reviews of 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'
Other poems by Jill Jones