I would shout,

I would shout,

Scream in fear,

Kicking out at an invisible attacker.

She would shake me awake

We would lie in each other's arms

Until we fell.

It was an everyday thing

Perhaps I snored

She would give me a dig

And I would roll over.

Sometimes she would purr

Although I never told her.

Nobody told me

I would be so long alone.

What if I snore all night

Scream

Shout, kick

It would be a lonely sound

Unanswered

Filling the room

Lifting the curtains

With each breath.

The crows would wonder

What it was all about.

The rattle of sound

From so many concrete dwellings

Breathing in

Breathing out.

Nesting sites need more

Than to be a home

For the geriatric old bird.

Grief dribbles out of windows

Pools onto pavements,

The sycamore on the corner

Shivers

When the cold hand of death

Rustles through its branches.

There is a smell

Attached to grief,

It hangs in the air

Fetid and damp

Taking the joy out of laughter

Old walls are soaked in it.

It sinks

A heavy deep roll

A Dead Sea fret

Dripping with sorrow

Like dust-covered plastic flowers

Still used

As a centrepiece

On an old oak table.

Untouched, unloved

The colours faded

The idea of them lost

And unresolved.

Desolate is

A rooming house,

A whole city

Full of sleeping people

Barely Breathing but

Snoring loudly

For want of compassion.

A tuneless dirge

A droning mass

Of lonely souls

Shut inside a small box

Trying to escape into that moment,

Just before waking

When they feel alive

And if they all shout at once

They lift the roof.