The Archaeology Of Childhood 1: House

If the house in a dream
Is how I imagine myself:

room after room
of furniture no one could use;

stairs leading upwards
to nothing; an empty hall

filling with snow
where a door has been left ajar;

then whatever I make
of the one room high in the roof

where something alive and frantic
is hopelessly trapped,

whatever I make
of the sweetness it leaves behind

on waking, what I know
and cannot tell

is awkward and dark in my hands
while I stop to remember

the snare of a heart;
the approximate weight of possession.

by John Burnside

Comments (1)

.......a fantastic write, although the language has me baffled...love this ★