A house of time unwitnessed

though strangely measured with layers,

of dust and speckling mould,

of curtains that decay, hang

strangely over the drawn blinds.

Mice dance on rugs, piano

keys, mindless of strange tunes

as something stirs, to float

silent and sad like lace

caught on strange, aimless breeze.

A curtain swirls, silent dance,

its agreement unknowing, beautifully unseen

an extra note, discordant, sharing

the space of motes, moths,

and sly slants of sunlight.

The memory is

           music ballgowns

meaningless, floating within flowered walls

of faces pressed between yellowing

pages unrecognised, clocks with unmoving

hands. Little remains but dreaming.

It dances, swirling, in forgotten,

layered silk - a dusty ballroom,

a creak of floorboard beneath,

a tick of clock as

it passes, a sigh unheard.