Listen to the irregular click, that out-breathing,
unwinding wind, that widdershinning,
teeth-catching snap. Press your ear to the almost
inaudible tick. Press your cheek to a cog; feel it dip,
chilly as brass. See windows flap open, hinges unscrew,
curtains dishevel their hems, floorboards flip dolls
into trunks with unlockable lids, and patches of sunlight
run down the walls. See in the fridge the cheese
re-curdling; knives and forks in the slow-turning
kitchen whipping to the Aga to smelt. And this sucking
thing at the letterbox is the past's mouth. It comes
with a tongue to lick oil off the mechanism.
***This poem, along with an earlier draft of the one that now appears in my Profile, first appeared in Agenda: Dwelling Places.