Blank Black Books

Sometimes, it descends like a warm night breeze A blanket. At once comforting and disturbing... The sense knocks. A vague, uneasy membrane just outside of feeling Too many years, too far along Too much water under so many bridges The house changes, transmogrified from cosy fustiness into something altogether sadder It carries weight, occupies space, colours the green screen Perhaps we are all just blank black books waiting for an author