I’m moving the things from one house slowly to the other. All that fits within oblivion nears, looms larger.
            The fig, the drystone wall, the wind: these mark the journey. The cracked gate. From wherever I approach, the other side is hidden. I pass myself by with unseen folk. They whisper brightly in the summer’s day, hungry to recognise one another. They stumble around the spider’s web, swaying with the swarms of gnats.
            They trade past for future.
            I carry over the boxes, obscured photographs, a map, creased pictures behind cracked glass. Empty spaces in wait for me.
            Pushing at the door awakes the secret within the lock, at the same time masks it. Memories return from long ago, parched in the stonefield, nothing reviving.
             I brush the dust with a finger, slowly, not to disturb it. Shoes, silk dresses, raisines, strewn all about. And something intimate, watching me.