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Thursday, May 24, 2007

You Drunken Lout

Last night the heat
was too much
for an Autumn night
I lay tossing
sleepless in
the still darkness
until you came
down our street
at eleven-thirty-three
P.M.

You drunken lout!
banging gates
playing footy with
the trash cans
left ready for
the rubbish man
in the morning

God, were you noisy!
just you on your own
thrown out when
the isobars closed
funneled in the gradient
of barometric pressure
to hurl yourself against
the walls of my abode

So

I closed the windows
pretending
you weren't there
and lay drifting
in the darkness
trying not to heed
your cacophonous brawl
as you vent your spleen
for all to hear
and I wondered ...

to whom can one report
a Nor'west gale?


New Zealand is notorious for its Nor'west gales, nowhere more so than Canterbury. So, when a 'goodun' blows up we know all about it.

Posted by fordy at 6:10 PM
Categories: Poetry