The slow creak of the house
As the wind blows
Through cracked glass
And keyholes,
Whistling like an
Ancient psalm,
A comforting disruption
To uninspiring calm.
I glance into
The expanse of nothingness,
It seems vast in this unlit room.
I whistle a one note trill
Into the pitch dark womb
And await it’s echo
To return and to spark,
To disrupt the still
Membrane air,
To ignite and to burn,
To flash and to flare,
To define vignette corners
That became lost in the night
Though I have no fear or fright
Of what the night brings.
I am man, I am dog,
I am many things
And by the power invested
In my full beating heart
I shall rank and file
And my musings compart
To dispel
The throws and
Disruptions that
I myself contrived,
That part that likes
To mock and jibe,
That undesirable,
Unwelcome side

Copyright Marc Hawkins