I’m waiting. No post for a day or two so perhaps there’ll be something.  I’m not expecting much but you never know. I’ve heard of letters arriving decades after they were posted. The road remains blank as an unwritten page. Just a pale space between ruled dark lines . Then suddenly it comes past the window before you can say Miss B with her blackboard rubber. One of those slates where the chalk makes a sound that can put your teeth on edge. She was writing some sums and the next moment she was there by the window pointing. It all  comes back like one of those missives arriving from over the years as clear as black and white.

first swift
a high pitched squeak
lost on the wind

Diana Webb