by Amy Wolstenholme

A t the start it felt like a clock.
T he rhythm too steady. The tap (drip) you for
G ot in the kitchen, or the key in the lock

T urning over (and over). And still, we could no
T work out the time, no rhythm to it, but still we
T ried. The drips on the window sometimes were

C rying, and still the church tower spoke in
C himes, but other times we could not hear it
A t all. Because sometimes we were tired. And the

C ode– The code was trying to be quiet. 
T hough sometimes it was a dance and we
G ot caught up in the hand of it and fou

G ht over who would lead in it (rise),
T he pattern of autumn leaves (fall)ing
T oo hard to predict but still we tried,

T hrough the night, dancing (rise)
A s though following candles (and f
A ll) like embers, to realise it was nothing more

T han smoke against smoke, and so we
C hoked. Sometimes it was just a look at
A nother pair of tired eyes across a room or

A nother cup of black coffee the
C olour of sky, whilst the rain against the window
C ried. Sometimes it was just the poem in: bu

T still we tried. Even then the words shattered. Some
T imes that didn’t matter. And sometimes it was everythin
G . Then later it became the ghost around the

C orner, as we trailed our way onwards, the stair
C ase turning like a spine as if to say: Now you are mine.
T he body and the mind, waiting on opposite streets, jus

T out of reach. But still I watched my hands r
A ce as if I was somewhere else, and dreaming (now you
A re mine) The machine falling away like ticker

T ape or the sweetest music, to say: here I am, the eni
G ma beneath. So I became the crescendo and it became the bea
T . Blasted unrhyming rhythm, just out of reach, in the ver

T ebra of the staircase, or the clack of the keys, or the
C lock in the corner, or the click of my teeth against the run
G of the cup, or the chime of the church behind the window (shu

T ) out the rain, but come in! Because that’s how you win.
A nd after, when we had broken it, and found the fallen le
A ves had landed silently, softly and unapologetically 

G old in the gutter, there was time to wonder what equation writes
T he shadow race of typing hands, or what second, hidden
C ode was whispering beneath; coding me to break a code.