Beyond the Garden #3
One morning in his neat little cottage
at seven thirty, his usual time,
he was contentedly brushing his teeth
up and down, the recommended way,
the recommended number of times,
when he smelt smoke.
He opened the window
and looked across his perfect little garden.
The jungle on fire, fierce crackling,
choking smoke drifting over rose beds
His cheeks glow with the heat
Appalled, he hears the rumble of a stampede of creatures,
feels his whole being vibrate as they burst from the trees,
smash his neat little privet hedge,
hurtle through the hydrangeas,
crash through the chrysanths,
He feels their fear, and he feels it too,
the primitive fear of elemental force
The jungle is on fire
The jungle is on fire.
Run run run.
The shed, his beautifully kept, tidy shed
bursts into flames
Don't panic, he says to himself
in his nice blue striped jimjams
for the neatly coiled garden hose.
Barely able to breathe,
He sprays the cottage,
He sprays himself,
and sprays the cottage again.
Standing, surrounded by steam,
he thinks -
So it wasn't a dream.