Shaping The Invisible (poetry)

Not long after lights out
I hear a cautious creak —
the stir of wood waking in the darkness
flexing stiffened joints
as the furniture begins
to inch about.

A chair on tiptoe now
slides slow on unsteady legs
an oak wardrobe shuffles — old with worm
my bedside table creeps
I catch the curtain’s sigh
pictures tilt then hold their breath.

A high thin tapping in the wall
like some spirit keen on visiting
asking for admission
the wind outside plays nocturnal music
for the drowsy shadow-dance
my bed rocks to its rhythm.

The room’s awash in its own dream
rugs transformed to magic carpets
float floor to ceiling — shaping the invisible
chill black air layering above me
sharp with trickle-trails of dust
disturbed — wood aches from stretching up
nostalgic for night-flying snow’s
blind pain-numbing touch.