Late winter's day and the cold airs
Creep and chatter on the stairs.
Bats twitter. Does the soul?
But bats are purposeful. They fall
In their dusk loops, to the time
The Chinese call "the aftershine"
When sky's colours chill and sing
The branches sharpen, everything
Stills, as the undazzled bats
Swoop and swerve to tickling gnats.
But our front door, its catch worn thin,
Sweeps backward, lets the East wind in.
If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased to hear from you.