and black whirligigs
in the night;
the wind humming
a madwoman’s tune, a mad mother’s croon,
at the window;
wheezing ice through
cracks in the glass,
rolling like a sandpaper surf
onto the dark and lightless shore
of this night that is a lepers’ island
without a lighthouse.
Roiling, spilling waves of black silica;
sucking dry the winter-sodden paddocks,
searching for fingerless limbs
ready to drop from trees,
turning this hollow, longhouse
into a boat
left stranded between the waves.
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