Text by Jane Draycott
In winter’s house there’s a room
that’s pale and still as mist in a field
while outside in the street every gate’s shut firm,
that is spread with frost and feathers,
or a pearl in a choked-up stream.
asleep in a dream of light that grows out
of the dark, a flame you can hold in your hand
that’s told of a great chandelier in a garden,
of all gates and windows wide open.
being dreamt by a child in the night,
in the small quiet house at the turn in the lane