In the dead of night; a strange noise. Is it though?

tic tic

It seems so in sleep, while on awakening feel around to find the room is home.

Remember the water pipes bang next door and he is a farmer who leaves early; he notes I have a lamp lit always; the last eleven years or so.

Works on the hill behind; would have lived there if he finished the house. The foundations stand still.

He came once looking orderly for the village funeral, and i said no one would notice the mismatch. He had not far to go.

Look to the window and recognise the light that slants across the graveyard, the neat

beech hedge, the company.

Lifting the pillows behind me listen and wonder if the wild ones are at the door again.

All was locked well last night, they are too small to intrude.

I guess it is the plumbing again, the thought of experience. We feel safe here in this precarious life.

Listening, another note, the beams moving, the house settling back. Rhythms of time remind us of the fragility of all things.

Moving forward always there come other notations that bring feelings, the Agnes Dei opens wounds and fears flood with salt.

Cantata Memoria

tick tick tick tick

Night here is filled with fairy lights, the garden comes differing with otherworldy


The night is not dead ever. All small things are moving creeping; even me now. Awake

I find to think, remember and write. The noise is so many words.

tack tack tack tack


sounds distant

if the window is open.

The hissing is continuous


I dreamed it all in metaphors.

During the day comes the noise of industry from the old toilet block sold

now, owned privately. Making a place with a little garden, the sound of fence posts

being erected. There will be much discussion in the village, while we stay quiet here

and listen to the noises.

Daytime, night time, tic tic

A strange noise? I don’t think so.

All is natural, easy unless our brains say otherwise with chemicals, peptides and fear. We are fortunate to live in this place where no bombs will take us.

I like to think about hot water to make everything clean. The wild ones smell better this time of year without bathing.

The strange noise could be these four hundred words?