Inside Quietness (Söderlund)

By | 1 February 2014

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.

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