The click of a latch,

the creak of a hinge;

is that the wind I hear?

Darkness hides the ordinary.

Moonlight makes shadowy shapes

that were never there in daylight.

The wind brushes gently in the leaves

like soft footsteps of ill intent.

The dog growls softly

and pricks her ears.

The phone splits the silence

but no one speaks.

My book remains unread

I am alone in the house at night.

© Gillian Peall

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