History? I forget.

Three o’clock in the morning
and I haven’t even a pulse.
Hour of suicides, the body’s
dark Sabbath, all systems down.

I hear voices tangling in conflict,
a woman, a man, his questions
sharpened by the Midland whine
rising step by querulous step.

The woman, cowed or cunning
waits for a chink in the tirade,
the point of vulnerability
to jab and wound with a word.

A second man, rising
out of the ground. Was he
silent till this moment?
Is he saviour or new tormentor?

A twister of ‘fook yews’ ascends,
gathering head like a typhoon, black
into the dawn light sky, but will
they fall as hammer blows?

It is over. The woman calls
them both off like dogs.
Stalking away coat held close
head furious, averted.

Only, now, the customary feints
to re-engage, the last bark at
the road end. Who said, “History
is a shout in the street?” I forget.