At dawn the house
moved downhill a little — not far,
but an inch is enough to nudge open
a crack the width of a quill
in zig zags across the kitchen wall.
It’s an old house, chipped
tiles behind the wood stove
and a twist of staircase, the last tread a trip
we forget when we’re tired,
carrying the lantern or steaming mint
up to the evening room with a view.
A fortune to mend, right down to the sills
which buckled beneath the weight of stone.
Men come and say they can’t help,
and in their eyes a naked relief
that they’re driving back to the city.
They warned us we lived
in a seismic zone but the earth stayed quiet,
the bees in their meadows and the hay
in the loft. We had cattle to herd,
we knew the price of each head
and the cost of the price,
and only last autumn,
before the weather turned in an hour,
we climbed to the summit together
and ate ripe plums and cheese,
bread that we tore into two,
enough for a day that hung like a quiet bell
between two nights.
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