Robin Robertson

August 06, 2013

Thickening in these narrows to some height and speed ...

A Winter Night after Transtromer
September 11, 2006

The storm puts its mouth to the house and blows to get a tone. I toss and turn, my closed eyes reading the storm's text. The child's eyes grow wide in the dark and the storm howls for him. Both love the swinging lamps; both are halfway towards speech. The storm has the hands and wings of a child. Far away, travellers run for cover. The house feels its own constellation of nails holding the walls together. The night is calm in our rooms, where the echoes of all footsteps rest like sunken leaves in a pond, but the night outside is wild.