At midnight the weather breaks,
The sky tears apart at the seams,
Ripping beneath a knife-slash of light.
(inside, beneath a white sheet
for the humidity of the summer night,
This is the witching hour;
This is when cats sniff the air with wide eyes
And twine their tails around kitchen brooms.
This is when the sky is a cauldron
Fit to weave any black art,
The rain to carry any vicious charm.
(in the sudden cool,
sweat prickles on her bare arm.
This is how the world will end;
Four horses wheel among the fighting clouds,
Hooves kicking in the swirling spray.
(in her white sheet like a shroud
she feels no need to pray.