Don’t close the curtains: the dark wants to come in
and the stars are plentiful as apples in autumn.
Somewhere there’s a city, buried in sleep as we
should be, but it is too cold for love or dreams
in this high room where we must suffer winter.
We could speak of once upon a time, but it is cold.
We could speak of the colour of the sky, but it is cold.
You say you hear music. I hear an owl far off
or is it a new soul calling across the rooftops?
Let’s count the lives we might have had
until each star has turned for home
until the empty orchards set their fires and burn.
©2022 Katharine Towers