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.