We grow inside houses, and remember each spring
how it seeped through the flooring –
bringing such thoughts, a cracking of dust –
the air will change, even now, as we lie
all bound in to our notional seasons,
fading grasses, and reasons to leave.
Clamber at the windows, catch sight of
woodsmoke, the tricks of trees, language held
in breathing bowls. Hammering, and
a child’s laughter cuts old years.
These clocks, they do things you wouldn’t believe –
bringing such thoughts, a cracking of dust –
in places, the snows have already come
falling with the precision of needles.