What Was Written
Long night. Sleepless.
I heard an owl, its call
filtering through the tall trees,
writing itself on the lush silence.
Other sounds followed reverently,
a moth whispering its powdery
presence somewhere in the room,
then, the soft padded footsteps
of a possum walking gently
across the rooftop of an evening
back into silence.
I tapped into the private
conversations the house
was having with itself, the creaks
and groans, the stifled gurgle
bubbled up from a troubled pipe
and from downstairs, an unknown
bump that gave no hint of cause.
The house carried on with this
chatter for hours then fell quiet
and perfectly still.
Later, I heard the dampened throb
of a locomotive coming in and out
of earshot as it skirted the far
reaches of the dawn, then a screech
of car brakes from a nearby street
causing the nerves to brace.
Too soon morning comes
with its hurry, erasing the silence
upon which this was written.
Time now for sleep.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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