Slipping on the sixth step

There is a cat on the stairs, who stands and stares 
as I slip on the sixth step; 
my joints as stiff as his smile. 

I slip, he topples, dents and bruises bloom;
 whilst in the downstairs room the TV mutters,
masking my tumble . 

These darkening days of Winter,
 that pleat skies with heavy cloud, 
and breathe river mists over garden walls; 

slow all motion.

The numbing cold and damp transforms me 
into a stumbling creature,
 graceless and disjointed;
swathed in wools and cashmeres 
to ward off the slowly creeping stiffness 
that seeps deep into bone 
and lingers like rust on a gently rotting hull.

The witching hour

This is the witching hour; the time before dawn where a faint glow low on the horizon filters through dark skies, shepherding in a new day. 

A time of small songs, when crickets sing  oblivious as water dragons wake from sleep, warmed by lamps, eager to eat

This is the time of cats, uncurled from slumber; who pad on soft paws to scratch at doors, demanding to be let free to roam once more along high walls and down amongst the toppled stones of quiet graveyards.

This is my time; with steaming mug in hand and glasses perilously perched on nose; wrapped in words that whirl from thought to page whilst the house breathes quietly on.