Poetry

Step to it

Beneath our feet in the coils of carpet

full of dander, paper fibres and pollen,

past the underlay thick as a pinky finger,

the floorboards warped to become musical notes

when stepped on, down

into the foundations

is a pulse. A beat.

A rhythmic tap of a dancer’s shoes,

the drum of fingers on a worktop,

a family getting into a car and shutting the doors

one after another.

When the house is empty,

the beat stops.

A light in the unoccupied spare bedroom switches on.

Click.