Midnight owled past on a cloud drift,
snowploughed high,
never rumbled to let me know.
No text no call no hoot.
It is the weather they say.
It dampens the transmissions,
makes them crash to the powdered
shroudfields
lost among flakes.
After,
I wait at the window,
my face an aldis lamp of random messages
as the sky switches its jags on and off.
Maybe they’re transmuted texts
racing through in strobe morse over the
trackless white
like hope escaping bright
from that box,
blinging windows like a flash crowd Christmas.
3 AM and waiting still, flash on glass,
winter lightning.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #42: Last Sentences, which required that the last sentence in the text must be used as given.
