Summer Storm

My garden weeps in the night
when it thinks no one's looking 


down their nose at it,  walking
all over it as they often do.

It doesn't know I lay awake 
listening to laboured breaths


rattle my single paned window, 
switching the lights on and off.

But the sun always leaves it exposed,
face down by the veranda door


its face still wet, hair dishevelled, 
just trying to act natural.