Goodnight Maiduguri

The gods are angry

Each pane rattles in its aluminium frame
The trees roar like a Wembley crowd

Birdlife tumbles past
And I fret about the seedlings in the planter

Early summer blue is slashed with grey
And evening nicotine

The back curtains of the house are drawn
The lights already lit

I imagine her watching the TV
Old newsreel images of Dunkirk

Scratching at her swollen ankles
Hauling herself upstairs to the toilet

I go inside
She’s in the kitchen drying dinner dishes

“Come outside and sit with me.”

To my amazement, she accepts

I fetch her coat
Boil the kettle as an afterthought

We’re sitting on garden seats among the pots
A cup of tea
Leaky bottle of Ribera

“Anyone will think we’re mad.”

I didn’t like to point it out
Just told her not to worry what other people think

Mary Marsden’s long gone

She sips her tea

The birds are cowed by gales
No doubt clinging to their hidden purchase

The clouds are putting on a show
She has me thinking Blitz skies, or Dresden

I pass her young geraniums and antirrhinums
We marvel at leaves forming in the nodes

She claims credit for it all, of course
But I’ve injured her delusions enough for one day

All too soon, she needs to use the toilet

I slide the door open
Help her stand and see her up the stairs

It’s almost dark

The gods have blown themselves out
Bored, no doubt

Dunkirk’s more their scene
Or Yemen, Aleppo, or Shock and Awe

The female blackbird hops across the lawn
Stops to tug a grub from the grass

She looks
Does she sense me?

The male begins his evening calls
Abridged

One of those days, I suppose

Goodnight Maiduguri
Sleep tight