November Wind
I could sense them more than hear them,
lying alone in bed imagining souls
swirling in pain,
seeking gaps, any sliver of a crack
inside the old house.
The wind has woken them, or perhaps
the orange-sparks of fireworks
recently spent had revived their memories
of Novembers past.
They moan, their aching voices
rising and falling, clattering the
windows, lifting the slates.
Had they risen from the scrubland
where the Blocks once stood?
Where they lived, ten to a house,
and slave to the Pit?
Or did they come from below, from
the tunnels darker than the deepest night
where they sweated and swore,
the place that tried to break them and
steal their soul?
Earlier, Dad had ventured out,
against Mum's better judgement.
He dashed from front door
to garage, wearing a hard hat to
protect from any flying debris.
I watched as they ripped it from
his head and carried it down
the littered street, and I reckoned
I heard their laughter. They would
have this November night as their own,
for in the morning they would be silenced.
Tim Fellows April 22nd 2020
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