I sit facing the window, and picture 
a world hidden behind a curtain,
drawn by desperate hands.

Vibrations at various pitches describe 
the scene beyond my bedroom door. 
Footsteps, voices on which I turned
my back, are still chasing each other
round in circles on the landing.

I clamber into story-books, slip
behind songs, but the tremors turn
to earthquakes, and narratives just
shake beneath my feet.

My tale seems unfinished and I find
this is no home for storytellers.