O: Rhombus Exists

Rhombus Exists

Rows of houses in the orange glow of street lamps,
Shortened driveways crowded with cars,
Regulated gardens and thick striped lawns,
All closed down for the night.

Among this picture of suburban bliss
The eye slips over and misses
One residence.
Absorbing light that others throw back
A tower hulks among the houses
Surrounded by trees whose winter-stark branches
Tumble to hide what might be a gate.
The trees rustle in a wind
That fails to disturb the ornamental windmill
On the manicured grass next door.
Each year the memories of leaves fall
Before winter closes in.
Above the trees, four straight walls
Reach to stars that do not shine
Over the tower.
Bow-slits stare out at double-glazed windows
that never look back

By day, neighbours hurry past
The rust hinged gate undisturbed by visitors' hand
And a cold wind always seems to blow
From beneath the never-green trees.
At night, a light burns in the windows
Casting narrow beams across the way
Where cats turn to avoid them,
And no weeds grow in the cracks
Between the crumbling paving stones.

Sometimes, when night grips the city
And all the windows in the houses
Have closed their eyes to sleep,
A shadow moves past the slits
And a head is pressed to the gap.
A single misshapen pupil stares out,
Red-rimmed and wild
Seeing murderous violence
In the empty street,
And ears closed to the city's breath
Listen to the screams of falling armies,
While nostrils unseen flare
At the smell of rank sewers of a medieval town
Which never existed,
And the smoke of burning crops
While fingernails like talons
Tear at the crumbling wattle
Of the walls within
And a stinging tear burns a furrow
Down a pale unwashed cheek.

Rhombus prays to gods he denies
For the coming of dawn.