Three musicians and a dog

call it that

the long dry

call it that

wind at you

webs through veins

salt and fret

scats of thought

the wrong sand

the rank dams

but cloud hints

then cloud smears

thumbs on sky

the drapes pulled

the page drawn

and fat rain

call it that

paints the stone

stuns the ants

and tugs you

pools you, stills

you, sings you

these fat drops

like hymns, like

home, like hope

so you stand

scrubbed and flung

and you stay

the hour flensed

and wet earth

knows you, kneads

you, breathes you

wet earth knots

you, owns you

yes, owns you

call it that

the colour of healing

it's a thick silence,

unrehearsed and accidental,

with the house suddenly empty.

rare, in a home like this —

grand piano, two cellos, violin, guitar —

three musicians and a dog,

Bach Chaconnes, Chopin Preludes and

high pitched whines joining cello duets

has me thinking though,

about the repositories of silence

because it's been here and waiting,

in the 45 degrees of stairwell, the angle

providing harbour, a balloon of silence

the colour of healing