neighbourhood – a poem

This is my house; and this is where it was built

beside house after house after house

which looks just like it.  And here I am

singing its praises to the stars, kissing my

fragmented youth into its prefab walls

taking its picture when the moon is hale

and almost whole in the sky.  

Hold on, hold on, wait for the witching hour;

wait for what happens when 3am flings the earth-bound 

skyward in their awkward dreams.  Wait for me 

to join you in your sleeping reveries

and we breathe in – and I touch your face –

and we breathe out – and I teach you how to dance.

And we breathe in – 

and we watch the sun rise over three hundred

identical rooftops

and we don’t feel the cold

in our fairy-flossed limbs.

Daisy Harris