DISTRICT SIX AT MIDNIGHT
Under a grey hollow sky
down streets wind-emptied
scoured and abandoned
by a brief sadistic rain,
I hurry.
Alone.
Between places, yet nowhere,
wet coat clutching at my legs
hot breath clutching at my heart
Head down against the wind.
Late and
alone.
A rustle makes me start.
A sharp scrape stops my breath.
A graceful shape lifts up,
its foot trapped by the grid
in the
gutter.
Gesturing like a beggar,
silently waving for help,
then abruptly blustering forward
threatening and slapping.
I turn
terrified.
Newspaper blowing on down the street
in a slow collapsing dance
suddenly deflated, silent, still.
Shift, twist, corners lift
and wave
goodbye.
Nothing is quite so meaningless
a windblown mindless mime
an abstract spite danced backwards.
But I am changed by my encounter.
Now I know
Fear.
Copyright
Ruth Hartley 1965
