The gusts of wind, that fling the scattered rain
against the panes and flail the eucalyptus –
which jerks as if a frantic, shaken doll –
are lowing in the chimney like an owl.
I draw the curtains as the twilight goes,
switch on the laptop and begin to write,
thinking of those who are without – homeless,
hungry, thirsty – no more than a mile
let alone a continent away.
Though giving assuages, on stormy,
desperate nights, survivor’s guilt intrudes
like a draught. Can we only save, at best,
ourselves and not the world?