Poetry by Mark Roper

OPEN HOUSE
 
 
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,
dark-w...