The weekend is quiet and dry.
Nothing’s happening.
The cloud cover comes
and goes without a word.
Even the dogs are confused.
They call to each other
like wolves in a forest
that they have created themselves.
Except that … Despite the noise
from the radio, the lost souls
who search for some kind of heart
in the reflections in the windows
of public buildings,
despite everything which points
to horror and fear,
the headlines in the newspapers,
the gossip which travels
through social networks
like waves of lightning,
despite the forgotten loves,
the adjusted street names,
here are the neighbours,
gathered outside the block,
here is the timber truck,
here is the fuel for next winter.
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips
