By May Thomson
The wind, making itself manifest,
Is possessing the vertical sheets of night—
Silver, chiffon.
Flour-fine and unbiting,
Glittering my arms with soft, pale vermillion,
The rain dresses me in a cool, satin shirt.
‘I am dressed just like the wind,’ I think.
And the wind, in its blouse, stays close at my back.
I take a drag of soft, black evening
And watch the motion of invisible things.
Featured Image – Toby Dossett