The sound of moving house Pat Edwards

The sound of moving house

In this house we have heard near death experiences, the tip-toeing of medicine into the body’s reservoirs. We have learned the notesand exchanges of birds whose flight has disturbed the air and parted clouds. The crunch of snow, the drone of deluge, the endless worry of sheep has composed a seasonal rural score, soundtrack to our screenplay. Now we are leaving, needle scrapes the vinyl, scratches out a new tune.

Strangers coming and going will be hum of engines revving in the lane, clattering doors. Voices will drift into our silent dreams, gatecrash through thin walls, until we settle again to the rhythm of living in town. We will hear lips pull on cigarettes, blow out smoke, the rattle of neighbours like percussion in the yard.

Pat Edwards

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