The night and the road are the same shade.
There's no demarcation but the car tyres keep to earth.
An ice mist breathes on anything stationary.
The car tyres roll steady to the door of the warmed cottage.
Coals orange as a low sun behind the door of the little Rayburn stove.
Boys on the sofa, slouchy, watching a laptop because the television broke.
But when they demonstrate the screen goes on and the volume works this time.
In a pan on the electric hob, leftovers fuse with added chilli.
A sip of cold coffee waits in a cup and a dog dreams in her basket.
Good news pings on a phone: a boy baby, they haven't settled on a name.