Angelus

Through old sash windows in my mother's room,
door closed, house quiet behind me in the gloom;
I look upon the silent city street.
This contemplation is a stolen treat.

This room's not mine to enter by daylight:
I may not play inside; the door’s shut tight.
But darkness, secret darkness, makes all right,
and things not dared at noon be done at night.

The street lamp fills the room with orange glare;
Its light is softened by the hazy air.
The rain, once fierce, is now but faintly there,
its sleek, striped skin upon the street laid bare.

The street is empty, as am I inside;
Yet something waits out there, and though I hide,
it seeks me out, its haunting call a tide
that pulls at me and on whose back I ride.

This still and silent night, this misty road,
is my north star; my alchemy; my lode.
My angelus is here; and, if I stay,
the street itself will teach me how to pray.

©Alexa Duir 1980

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