Angeline Farrow

TIMBER FRAME HOUSES

A tree began to grow up through my living room.
It began as just a twig
poking between the floorboards
and I kept snapping it off,
but each time it grew back
with more determination;
pushing the floorboards apart,
ripping out nails,
scraping its fingers up the walls.

It grew into the kitchen
spilling pasta and breakfast cereals
crunching the taps like tin foil
bathing in the flood that followed.

It began to rattle my bed at night
keeping me awake
by prodding at my feet.
It took over the shower
and flicked through my diary.
I felt it knew too much
about me and my life.
It had seen the books I read
and the films I watch,
and I had even caught it
looking through my underwear drawer.

So, fueled with paranoia,
I have moved into the garden shed
and sit alone, in the dark
looking into what was once my house
and watch the tree
watch the six o'clock news.

They're doing a piece about
timber frame houses.
I can see the tree shuddering;
it's leaves shaking against the window.

But it's hard to tell
whether it's crying
or simply laughing.

MIST

We wake to mist
and set out in a half-dream
barely able to distinguish
one finger from another.

The landscape is slow to form
around us
though we feel pressed in;
bound by it.

And the trees begin as whispers,
melting into dreams,
turning into ghosts,
only then forming into branches.

A spire is smudged
above a line of rooftops
like an echo of the past;
like something forgotten.

Half my world has disappeared
but I can still remember
what it looked like.
Mostly.

And I long for something
I can touch
something to hold
that makes my palm sweat.

But nothing is solid
it is all just whispers
or water droplets
in the sky.