even though expected,
still thrills. We step outside.
Our slow, sleep-slurred words
falter as the concrete steals the bed-warmth
from near-naked feet.
It takes some seeing, oh but when we do,
the frisson: this otherness, this unfamiliar
rubbed-out red that’s neither blood nor bloom,
amber to ember.
To our left, a light flicked off.
We sense the shape at the window stare
at us staring. The restless earth rolls on,
and all becomes the shadow.
© Marion Adams 2015