The dinosaurs are on the march again. They have trampled across the terrace overnight, Leaving green, veined footprints in their wake. Now they lurk in the undergrowth;
Here now skyline assembles fire. The sun collects up to leave. Its bright following paled, suddenly all goes. Dusk rushes in, like door closed on windowless room.
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie. The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day. The hall is worried about the loose banister.