Revolution

You are screaming at me,
but I can't hear what you're saying.
You're looking past me,
over my shoulder,
to someone standing behind me.
"But there's no-one standing behind me!"

I shout at you,
but you don't seem to hear me.
It's like we are shouting past each other,
at someone else,
but no-one else is here.

Then a draft blows through
the open door.
A hinge complains.
A gentle autumn breeze
carries a few leaves in with it,
limp, tired and past caring
about caterpillars and chrysalids,
about rainfall and gales,
about facing towards the sun,
and photosynthesising,

and the mirror rotates slightly,
back into place,
and I see myself properly
for the first time.