house call


through the windows
with a tracery of cracks
of not-quite-breaking patterns –

light cast
on her postcards on the wall –
the overlapping sights
of long lost churches

of the dead
their messages impressed
on mildewed plaster

through the door
the rough-
cropped texture of the grass

a ragged edge
that strokes the mottled grey
of paving slabs

a dead leaf
draining into brown
the sparrow
floating in the bird bath

through the gate
with stones aimed
at her cracked
and rain-streaked panes

the smell
of pages wet with words
that haunt
her letterbox