Afterwards all they could say was this:
that the days remained unseasonably settled,
that the tangible air failed to taste
of anything strange, even in darkness.
That traffic noise became a murmur
in the distance that didn’t concern them
and, mostly, the sky kept its blue
as the gulley on the border between farm
paddocks grew rivulets that were difficult to gauge.
That they had turned their backs for less than a minute
distracted by the hum of electrics, a message
arriving that seemed urgent.
All they could say was that something had crept in
through an outhouse door, taken everything.
in Poetry South East 2020, Frogmore Press