All night not sleeping

but tossing and turning over

some unfavourable thought

I lie listening to the bones of the house

creak like the inside of a piano.

 

Who's awake at this hour?

Just the mice rolling their life's luggage

across the attic floor,

running the gauntlet

between the suitcases and heavy coats,

little refugees sailing

their slim luck in the dark.

 

How heavy the world must sound

creaking and heaving about them,

the house caught in turbulent night winds

like a ship settling in

the dark waters of a flood.