My shadow -- I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold in the early light in my room high over London. What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire so that I got up and looked out half-asleep at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below? Without fire Only the wind blew. But in the dream I woke from, you came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging to my elbow, your eyes spoke what I could not grasp -- Nothing, if you were here!
The wind of the early quiet merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels. The lights are out, the air is loud. It is an ordinary January day. My shadow, do you hear the streets? Are you at my heels? Are you here? And I throw back the sheets.