Two hundred metres south, something discordant with the night is pacing the main road. I can't see it because of the bend in my road, but I can feel the serrated energy. Maybe it's just the traffic, or maybe it's one of the mad folk who live in the little woods, whose nests I have hurried past, and voices I have heard moaning across the water, scattering swans. My eye keeps being drawn in that direction, so there's something, and I stay close to my door. To the north, rainclouds are gathering. It won't rain though. It seldom does anymore.
So the moon is wild and lovely - but all the stars seem wrong. There's part of the Southern Cross, but it's upside down, and the rest of it has gone. Maybe the wind has scattered them. Or scattered me. Its sea-salted voice is gentling beneath those broken constellations, as if saying that nothing has to be exact any more, including me. I remember this is why I will not cut my hair - so the wind can go through it and bring me to wild peace. Almost it works tonight. Almost.
I wonder how many nights in my life I've sat alone in gardens, sighing, crying a little, thinking the world could break at any moment. I wonder if other people do it too.
art by lucy grossmith