Lullaby

Close the door now, close it well and she soothed herself with its sound. It slammed out the outside and she crept upstairs. And back downstairs, lifting blankets from the beds, taking unused towels from cupboards.

There now, there now, she whispered to the door. Smothered it under fabric now, shoved and draped and stuck with gaffer tape, up to the architrave and over hinges. Push it away. And hide.

Windows next, she rushed. Hurried-scurried against the clock.

Tick loud, tock loud, pulsing, beating at her temples as she climbed. Teetering on kitchen chairs to reach and hang, to black out outside with cardboard torn, with paper. Newspapers empty threats, silenced bleating little black, little shapes shouting Doom but not for her.

She was safe if she rushed, if she scurried far away. And tucked up small and slight behind her fabric plastered doors, behind her tattered papered windows. She was safe.

She stroked the walls and thanked them. Gave a blessing to their strength.

Keep it out, keep it all away now.

And if she slept, her barricades against the clock would calm her, her cardboard shields and curtains would sing her deep to sleep.

There now, there now, stop the hands from turning. And she whispered to the house.

Keep February from my door.

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