The candle-light sculpts anew the contours of the vase on the window sill. It holds the silence of this hour where the first sound of an unknown bird is an invitation, a call to song. A call to summon the music of words in your native tongue before the streetlights flick. Somewhere a fox is lurking along an alley where a voice from the past is whispering ‘listen’.

down the chimney
a breath of wind
syllable shift

Diana Webb