[Written by Eden Dodd (she/her)]
Six pieces of wood and four panes of glass.
Lingering, loitering, lost – voices drift down the hill.
I crane my head around curtains to locate the noise, bellowing bodies gone long before their sounds simmer.
When figures do move into view, they are framed and forgotten before they are familiar.
They hold coffees and shopping bags and hands.
People encased in cloth, cautious of the cold.
Dictated by the distraction, my head lifts each time, held by thought, it is heavy.
