The room is still
The gently snoring dog lies
where he should be, over by the door,
his body long in relaxation,
his pale pink nose beside his blackened paw.
The fire coals are glowing low
within the basket
and the common cat curls
purring in a chair.
The neighbours on the cantilever staircase
run up and down behind the plaster wall.
The old brass chandeliers are dully gleaming,
reflecting light from silken amber shades,
the candles slope lopsided in the sconces,
the wonky wirey arms of girandoles.
The feather cushions sag in resignation,
the bolsters snuggle down half out of sight,
the long case clock
adds pleasing punctuation,
to the slowly passing minutes
and my eyes
grow sandy, droop and sag
as I cast about in jaded observation
and view the room but do not turn around,
as I try and write about the silence,
made up of tiny, happy, unimportant sound.