Five O'Clock

The road is blue.
Collonaded trees, leaves
black flags, drooping off
upheld fists of galls.
A few houses lit amber,
cider light from bedrooms
makes shadow puppets
of cups and lampshades.
Wind comes now and specks
the panes with drizzle.
Inside the yellow cradle
we sit and pick at toes or
teeth, watching dark tint
the blind's gapped slats.
We curl like cats, voices
keen and low, like a cello
heard through a wall.
The sky purples, cars slosh
into the gutter's reservoir
blocked up with leaves.
Their headlights bob
over speed bumps,
flashing up the hill.
Its five o'clock
and the house
is full of light
and laughter.