something else

I’ve left the balcony door open. Wrapped up in my mum’s knitted jumper the length of my knees, a moment ago I met a world that spoke of something else. Stepping into a snow globe without the snow. Sky illuminated from beyond its glass, the winter branches melting like ink against iridescent pearl. Bare trees less menacing, a warmth in the air. Is this a spring whisper at 5pm in February? The blackbird’s note-jewels flood the strangely lit air, I imagine his song is just for me. A moment later he chastises someone, a warning siren. Perhaps the cats hidden in the grass, the birman and the moggy, sapphire eyes and eight nimble paws. The windows across the gardens melt with honey light, wooden wind chimes lightly nudging each other. Now the blackbird is pouring his diamonds slightly further away, the air is dark and the ink is spilling. Trees whisper and I think they know something. I shut the door for now.