The day is splintered – sharp enough for argument.
Hands clench, fingers threaded. Though the curtains are closed, it’s clear the light is winter’s.
Matchsticks drop down floorboards – the gaps are wide, unfilled, asking for it.
Softened wax fills my ears – still the voices never cease.
There’s room behind me on the chair – I only need the very edge to sit on.
from ‘The beating of wings’ (Hearing Eye 2006)