Friday 15 December 2017


Upstairs, a door opens and closes

on these little lives

packed tight, like clothes in a drawer.

The day is folded up

or flung in laundry

told as a bedtime story.

Two heads lie deep in pillows where

each dream unfurls, replays

the ball, the grass, the slide

the ice cream van, and after supper

brushing teeth in turns

the pyjama feel of evening.

The last light left on

describes the shadows

conceals the consistent mystery of downstairs

of voices and The News

humming through floorboards

like reassurance.

No comfort for us.

We know the silence

that will come

when all the doors are open

and do not shut again.

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