Murmurings From Aloft

(At an attic window, Holyrood Crescent, Glasgow)

Window rattling drew me here;
weary of spirit,
longing for the chasm of sleep,
troubled by love’s emotions.

A chimney-crowned tenement
commands my attention.
Dark shapes in silhouette
delineating the city’s dull skyline.

A warm strange wind plucks and pulls
at the trees in the Square.
Animating, aggravating
the leaves in the treetops.

Flyting, dancing,
in a dark paso doble
of sinister intent.
The eerie chiaroscuro of night.

There is no stranger here
in fedora,
collar up, head down.
No cigarette glowing.

No full moon or hooting owls
or toppled dustbins.
No shrieking arch-backed cats
nor shadows on the blinds.

No dog barking
with a juicy bone.
No incessant ringing
of a distant telephone.

I am at home
in monochrome
breathing mist
on the windowpane.

Why then does my heart beat loud
and my mind race,
regardless of the lateness
of the hour?

I close the curtains.
Kick hapless furniture.
Stumble to bed, murmuring.
Lost in the landscape of night.

© Brian Crawford Young 2017

Art is art, everything else is everything else.

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