Dec 2011
He sits at the window;
His back to the world
His back to the rain and sleet
His back to the dying street.
From across the way I peer at him.
He does not know I am here
He does not care.
That dark figure framed by light
That rests across the street.
With courage I crossed
And came to meet
Only the king
Of rain and sleet
As I crossed the dying street.
And all I found were lowered gates;
Barricades of christian steel
And the dying monarch
With silent death peels.
His back to the world
His back to the rain and sleet
His back to the dying street.
From across the way I peer at him.
He does not know I am here
He does not care.
That dark figure framed by light
That rests across the street.
With courage I crossed
And came to meet
Only the king
Of rain and sleet
As I crossed the dying street.
And all I found were lowered gates;
Barricades of christian steel
And the dying monarch
With silent death peels.
I wrote this in a pub on the inside cover of a Penguin book. I looked out through the rain and saw across the road, a figure framed by light in a distant window.
