The house has withdrawn into its quiet self.
I sit here with my neglected hoard
Of books. The rooms all shine. How they shine!
I hear the cat’s paws on the wooden boards.
What else is there to do but shine?
Rugs flat as a lazy estuary.
Rooms and time mine, all mine.
Toys hidden away, stacked tidily.
Tane’s room a static work of art,
Just boxes within a box, trains, cars, bears.
Pants kneeling, waist to knee, shirts praying reverently,
Matching socks asleep, in pairs.
No block-fall of Lego down the steps. No yells.
No tumble of towers. No magic powers, or spells.
The lined -up boots as still as alphabet L’s.
Chalk train tracks washed away by showers.