The lights in the street
are gold or white or blue.
The primitive grass says nothing
of what’s to come.
Distant cars whisper rumours
of other people’s lives.
A bird starts up then breaks off,
leaving communiqués to the darkness.
Inside, everything is tidied up,
as after a birthday.
The kitchen hums, while pictures
sleep upon the walls.
The dog is dreaming, silently barking
at the rabbit of morning.
