M.P Powers, one of my favourites.
It’s Walpurgisnacht here in Germany,
the night the witches take Brocken, night of bassoons
in the concert halls, and sirens
and heat lightning flashing in the clouds.
You watch from your garden
which sits amid a canyon of dim and oddly-shaped
pre-war buildings. You watch while listening
to the people in the buildings murmuring, banging pots,
playing old jazz songs. Every five minutes or so, the clouds blossom
with fire, glowing and throbbing, revealing their shapes.
And now it’s dark. Only the lights
in the buildings gleam,
the reddish-gold glow of the rooms spilling over
the balconies and onto the walls.
A shadow moves behind a thin, luminescent curtain.
Another one appears. You watch them tango and whirl
as loneliness, that hissing serpent
with red eyes, enters the garden, slithering
through a bed of flowers and up the tree, coiling
around a limb just over you.
But now the light…
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