Noise, Delaunay's Road

Not lead shot sprayed from a gun against a wall
or rattling on a plate from a scoop of pigeon stew,
not dried peas spilling on the old cracked lino
of the backroom wash-house, unconverted scullery,

not hailstones on the windscreen of the pick-up van
we painted red from rusty blue, but gravel
on a bedroom window, early hours of Sunday,
because we haven't got a front door bell.

Because you haven't got, don't need, a key
because I'm always there, because tonight
I'm not up, ready with an ear, a body, with a finger
on the latch to let you in because I've fallen,

dreaming of disasters, to a fitful sleep, deep
enough to nightmare on through theatre whispers,
half-shouts, half-cut anger; but not through gravel
fistfuls at the window till I'm up and you are in

and I am taking down fine wedding china, gold-rimmed
white, from off the shelves in the backroom wash-house,
unconverted scullery, till the old cracked lino's covered
with a beach of jagged rocks and tiny china gravel chips.