Like a barren woman, condemned to waiting
for signs, I breathe slow in case chance slips by
ungrasped, or a doorway creaks, or the garden gate,
mossy and cracked, unhooks to let in a child’s voice.
My corners are damp, as lonely as the number one,
and a chair, left behind I don’t know when, mocks
from where it faces away from a black fireplace.
Something scutters, day and night – a mouse, a roach,
a leaf, a whisper, a tiny spectre in a nightgown.
The gloating wind sneaks in via the maws of keyholes
to gossip what it has seen abroad. I cover my ears.
© Fran Hill
Fran Hill is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.
