Ruffle, rustle. Risen sun scrawls the number,

Seven, hung from the bluey-grey wall. 

Wrathfully, hear brooding black sky.

The house under siege, venom outside.  

In gracing, maximised slices, shadows die.

A bandage ripped away, the house revels,

Popping bright on its proud face. 

The kitchen is again awake; the staircase loud

With shuffling feet and the sun makes,

Impossibilities of restful sleep.