When you open your midnight door
fishing for sound you hear
the scrape of a snail
the frame fills with the head of a fox
your eyes meet
Do you then plant a stethoscope
on the throat
of a wren
feel for the pulse of the glacier
grinding its way to the future
or track the thrum
of a lone motorbike rider under colliding stars
scanning lit streets
in the hope of sighting injured mammals
deep in open-cut screens drowning in tea
blinded by the glare
of the jewellery channel?
Julie Maclean
Willesden Nocturne for a Retired Nurse
1 February 2018