Gleaming White

The wind was blowing through the trees;

all was movement; each leaf carried a reservoir,

a film of sun-laden rainwater.

The houses gleamed white on their southern sides,

northern and eastern walls were dark in shadow; through all,

the windows maintained their dead-eyed stare on all that passed.

And you, sitting in that hard light, thinking, perhaps, of love,

watching the bleached days pass, feeling the heat on your skin,

were turning to concrete without ever quite realising it.