Waiting for the Perseids

By Edward Channer

I sit in a spot where the old

Barn cuts out the least sky.

The dark silence here makes the

Noise of earlier distant,

But scorched skin on my

Arms and neck are reminders

Of their first go at badminton and

Dips in a cool sea.

With the clouds pushing over the hill,

The sky opens up.

But now it is late.

Satisfaction is recalibrated

To the sight of bats flitting

From the house to the barn.

Content, my head nods.

And then,

Like paint pushed by little fingers,

A smudge streaks across the black.

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Edward lives in Oxfordshire, United Kingdom, and works in international development. He studied English at the Universities of Nottingham and Oxford and writes whenever he can.