This patch of land which is my place –
my unit, my yard, my bit of street,
and, if you like, my slice of sky …
the view, too, over the road
to those blue mountains looming
above the houses opposite: a string,
a ridge, an endless, undulant panel
(where, if you try, you can discern a dragon
along the top edge) – is loud with sound.
Outside, the sounds are all around,
and varied. There's a hurried run of feet
along the bitumen street, pounding
with a firm beat. There’s the low growl
of a car passing, or slowing for home.
On warm afternoons, the little kids
across the way come out to play
on their bikes in the driveway, supervised
by the watchful eyes of mum and dad.
Sometimes their big sister is with them.
Her calm, light voice intercedes between
the little ones’ bright squeals and yells.
As night arrives, they trundle their bikes inside
with reluctant rumble. The street goes quiet
behind doors, while the lights come on
and the dark settles, widens. Now the sound
of footsteps moves, tapping, across floors
of lino or wood or shuffles, muffled by rugs.
My cat stretches, scratches her carpeted post:
a long rasp of claws from each front paw.
Then she pads across the floor for her food,
which she chews with a soft scrunch. Me,
I clatter utensils on the bench, making sure
she’s well fed. Otherwise she might treat me
to a long, strident miaow, loud enough to tell
the whole street I don’t feed her well! (But then
she purrs, while we snuggle in front of the telly.)
NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Fourteen, in which we are asked to write of the sounds of a particular place, excluding references to birdsong, and using a conversational tone and slant rhymes. (My slant rhymes don't necessarily happen at the ends of lines. I also use a few full rhymes.)
I got quite carried away and forgot all about the stipulation 'to imagine the “music” of a place without people in it'!