The weather and other remedies

At the storm's navel, I surface

from a nap not chosen—

my tongue a rum-dried apricot,

my lips a shallow spit.

Heard swirls into seen—

a downpour, hatched

at midday, yellow-dark

and crawling up the door.

I recognise nothing,

having taken sense

into a dream

and dropped it at the pass,

until a silhouette

unfurls from an ember

to watch her courgette plants

shrug off the curling water.

Lightning — a conduit.

Along the back row,

other windows: lights

and other faces.