The bailiff of Scraefield Manor

This wind won’t let us be. Knowing the debt
Our flesh owes, it’s come to collect. Batters
The door. Hungry for bounty. Headbutting walls
While we bury the bed. Lie above it as nothing
Snakes around us like a bola. Pulling walls so tight,
The windows shudder in their frames, squeal
For us to give something back; anything. Before the lid
Of our hideout pops and we’re found once again.

Last night, we edged ourselves outside the house.
Shouldered our way to the top of the hill,
There, where trees had been plucked from the island's chin
We leaned into the dark. Witnessed the same force
Hammering on the gravestones at Westing,
As if there were something still left to collect.