Two small stones

1 The West Coast Wind

it whistles and howls
prowling around the house
it rattles windows and slams doors
it blows the washing off the line
it blows the holiday-makers off the beach
clouds race across the sky
plants cling to their pots
trees sway, struggling to maintain their dignity
hands thrown up in disgust and despair
and the sand dances
over the dunes

2 – Incandescent

I lie in a white room:

white roof, nearly white walls

covered with black and white photographs.

The bedding is white,

as is the door, and the blinds,

closed to keep out the light.

If I looked in the mirror

my face would be white.

But I do not look.

I close my eyes,

seeking refuge in darkness

which is seared by white lightning.

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