Conspiracy

Oh dear Ana, what a clatter
it made-- the sun going down
beyond the hill, rumble of red
and screaming gold-- we dared not
look back, racing fast as we could
the rain to our door.

Tonight friendlylike,
the wind shall whistle,
tease the dark leaves, beg
to come in, while we
(safe behind our doors)
may dream of it streaming
green summer sap under our skin
scraped by raw coral shards,
sands, the barks of trees.
A safe wind turned to our will,
tame to the prickly mind
seeded with grss,
briar and burr, taste
of plundred gardens tingling
on our wakeful tongues, the slugs
wounded under our feet.

Our windows would hang tight
though the wind may sing
through all the long night.
But oh sweet Ana,
what of the morning
when the sun shall rise
rattling at our door
its sabres of light?
How shall we fare,
dear Ana, would you know?