Go to sleep, everything is all right. - Roy Orbison
It starts with a hurricane - your house,
red-roofed, enlarged.
Finger-plucked
from its garden, a hideous kite
careening.
In its wake, brick-crumbs
scattered like sugar.
Neighbours gawk
as it blows out of sight: lands southwards,
under a lowered sky
like in Canada, where summer snows
and clouds sink
like soft boats,
scorched at the edges.
I wait, re-tying my shoelace,
snake in the wheat field.
Ribs throbbing, to the roar
of your London cab.
Your foot emerges:
the rest bare-faced,
rounded with child.
Ends with a lull, the creak of stasis.
The last things: your flushed cheeks,
peach like morning.
Bursting suitcase proudly presiding
over crackling grass.
Its father, unknown; this dream,
not a nightmare.
