She wakes to the sound of foreign music  

floating softly from the radio beside her bed

and in the crowded space where dreams linger

the rustle of something rubbing

against something else.

The walls have all been painted

a dull yet blinding yellow.

There’s no trace of where things used to be.

She’s put all the memories in storage boxes

with tight-fitting lids and stacked them

in the farthest corner of the attic.

Her shoulders still ache from the weight.

Later she rides the bus to work.

The distant sound of a train whistle mingles

with the moan of a sharp north wind.

The moon, stark and white in an indigo sky

rides along beside her. She watches it glide

through the branches of elms and poplars

and above snow-covered rooftops.

She can no more escape the moon

than her own death.

At the park she gets off the bus

and in large letters slowly writes

her name in the snow.

The wind has vanished and the moon is fading.

She listens to the sound of no birds

and to the footsteps of those who are not walking.

Exquisitely alone in this strange

familiar landscape she begins to sing.

Clean clear notes rise and hang like jewels

in the cold air around her as she watches

the glow of emerging sunlight scatter

the grey breath of dawn.