Poetry by Mark Roper

The house takes place on bog.
When the milk lorry goes by,
our rooms are gently shaken.
Unseen, unheard, each autumn
thousands of clusterflies
slip somehow into the attic
to sleep away the winter.
A sunny day sees a dozen
seep through the ceiling
to grieve the golden windows.
A spider’s listening device
in every dark corner,
roads known only to ants;
woollens coddling moths,
worms adding their code
to the words of our books;
springtail and silverfish,


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