She sits and stares and I do too.
Outside, the billowed silk is cold:
the cubic art with Scottish lines, drawn hard.
But these – the light, the sound, the uncertain story –
seem so wrong. They wake up longing;
they brush a broken wing against loneliness.
Let me in, they whisper to us. Let me through.
There is no need to stare at her.
She hears it too.