Let this be home: the house we never had,
a box of lights, a jar of copper nails,
cat's bones and feathers
an arm's length into the chimney.
Deep in the garden
the edges wander and blur
convolvulus winds through the flowers, the violets drift
spotting the ditches with colour beyond the canal.
Some nights, the fox slips by
in blood-orange light,
leaving his kill; the wet pelt the frost-threaded eyes,
the bones in the ceanothus, becoming dust,
and waking will sometimes resemble
the sudden precision of gunshots out in the field,
when the woods are immersed
in a clear and improbable dawn.
and traces everywhere of what is risen;
bonemeal and horsehair, a fingerprint etched in the
whatever it is that fades when we enter a room,
leaves only the glitter of brass, and the gloved noise of