I wake: only the wind
curls, the rise and fall
call of the whip bird
the white curtain billowed with light.
Everyone is sleeping.
The quiet house accepts my footfall
the way a winter forest accepts a solitary deer:
coarse wooden walls—
the colour of molasses—groan
as I pass, forgetting they are no longer
standing trees easing themselves
beneath weight of snow.
In the kitchen a kettle of water
catches heat, brews a thunderstorm—
I hold my breath
but no one rouses.
Back in bed I contemplate the small
grey bird pecking air on the white plate
left out overnight, the blue hills falling
away like a clear rain.
Inside Quietness (Söderlund)
1 February 2014