all will be well
From a darkened, sodden side-street
I watch a plane climb over the distant delta
and point its nose towards Ningbo in the north
as a number eight typhoon envelops it
and dusk descends.
As wind-gusts grab at my umbrella,
buffet fragile windows, rattle shop-fronts
and whine through every crack and crevice,
to watch this defenseless aircraft
grapple with the whirling clouds
and claw at the thick air.
I imagine concerned passengers,
wishing they had chosen another day,
their tensely tightened fingers clutching armrests.
And others—seasoned travelers,
eyelids closed, earplugs inserted,
ignoring the real world,
with canned music.
A sudden passing car and putrid water soaks my jeans.
A soggy cardboard box slaps into my back.
My umbrella inverts itself
and a bony white cat, its tail erect,
erupts from an uncovered manhole.
Rain lashes my face and squirts up my nostrils and
my shoes squelch with every step.
And still, I watch that plane
as it bounces its way through the fury above.
And I notice the coloured lights
dancing on its tail and wing-tips,
giggling in the face of danger,
and I sense that all will be well.