Last year’s leaves assume the footsteps of mice,
Scuttling across an empty dance hall dance floor.
Empty as an out-of-season football ground car park;
On a Sunday.
Empty as a school playground in summer,
The footsteps filling the space childhood voices had vacated.
Occupying the still Arctic plains with pinpoint acoustic precision.
And yet, it was not cold.
Nothing else stirred, not even our breathing.
From beyond, way, way beyond,
The perfectly clipped cackle of a Jackdaw broke the air,
Muted conversations of geese playing on an ancient gramophone,
Poured in through the light that had no depth,
Only sound, monochrome, stereophonic sound,
With no origin in space, just time.
There was only time, and sound
Those sounds, and that time