The snow’s sigh on the eaves
at rest at last after its long migration.

The shuffle of air as it presses against the door,
a mother listening for a child’s breath.

The sizzle and crackle of an oil heater

the rhyming creak and knock
of walls and roof beams easing
as if the house stretches out
of the night’s recurring dreams.

And the less obvious:

The slow flow of old windows
as the panes sink into themselves
like a man into thought.

The hidden channels of dejection, pleasure,
emptying, filling.

The quiet hive of mind
turning over mind.
 

© Emma Neale 2004

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Last updated 11 July, 2004