First: the tapping on the rain-washed glass
as outside, autumn-crushed leaves dissolve into the green.
Softened-grey the sky pulsates
Divulging silent secrets searchingly
sacred rain-tendrils trailing fingerless from the sky
—and still the knocking comes.

Second: his face against the fogged-up pane, breathless, mistless.
Drowned boy, storm god,
eyes like riverwater and hair the colour of ocean.
He exhales droplets that slide graceless down the glass
leaving misty runes
—and still the knocking comes.

Third: white hot blind the sky cracks in two
the hollow rumble
as corpse-cold hands trail signs and sigils
pick at the latch
seek entrance for the pale ghost-glistening lord
with his liquid eyes.
Cold, and still, and deep
—and still the knocking comes.

I stare greedy through the glass
to the gale to the storm to the rain;
to the hollow emptiness of the face outside the pane.
But we are inside here, and it is safe.