Sunday 9th February 2020


Storm Ciara

All night long the wind has blown
Through my disturbed sleep my home has moved, creaked and groaned
For it is a home not a house when it’s made of wood and sticks
Bricks and mortar are what make a house
I feel the walls shift behind my head
A head that’s resting but not at rest
My body holds the pain in limbo
While laying here I watch as the trees are raked
The leaves hang on
Life and death played out in this storm
I’m withered and the home moans along to my silent
Internal battle with an unknown discomfort
I write this now with numb and burning fingers

John Bish 9th February 2020


Decided to abandon portrait but to be honest it looks quite good sitting here by the bins.


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