Hobbing
A hob, as I’m sure you know, is from another time. But, if you are lucky, you may have one in your house.
Dancing on a sixpence,
spinning on a pin,
whirling with the dust motes
in a shaft of ironed light;
whispering in the eaves,
in the narrow cracks,
in between the floorboards,
groaning with the pipes;
up on the rooftop,
shaking up the jacks.
Sleeping in the attic,
or behind the stack of logs;
or nesting in the chimney
and hobbing in your silence,
hobbing through the long night,
hobbing off the witches
when they snitch us
into fright.