Poetry

Moving

There’s something in the air
says maybe tomorrow it’ll snow.

I’m walking back to a new house
from somebody else’s bus stop.

A shopping bag’s caught in a tree.
A moon glows in a neighbour’s window.

The key works, though I could be anyone,
and the front room’s an unfinished jigsaw

of boxes. The streetlights warm up
as the kettle boils, and I picture

my old place, its cupboards all open,
its rooms filling slowly with snow.

Joe Caldwell