Tocsin

There is a persistant plip plop
scritch scratch scratch scritch
staccato beats like the tapping
of alien fingers on the window.

I pause and shiver shoulders tense
It must be the amplified sound of rain
and leaves yet there is a discordance
in the air like the distant call of the tocsin.

I shrug and turn on Rusalka and sit feet up,
as the liquid notes of the music envelop me
as I visualise the prince swimming in the lake

the phone rings.