ISOLATION
               I dreamed they moved the forest
		as I watched from a window
		never suspecting such impermanence;
		scenery rolled like a stage set,
		replaced by things more essential.

		No trees, and in their stead rose
		abodes of relentless brick
		and from inside came starry toddlers,
		women who looked through me,
		hooded men with narrow histories.

		I was irrelevant to them, hermetic,
		inside a questionable house
		breathing the memories of ancestors
		who claimed they’d seen it all,
		but defunct as old encyclopaedias.



SILENT ORDER

The nun was at the grill
talking to a surprise visitor.
Voice a plangent novelty
each time it left her mouth.

Some of the borders
had reported to parents
that nuns were disappearing
mysteriously in the night.

It was her mission
to dispel these rumours
but being a silent order,
proved problematic.

In the classroom
they had to use gestures
and hand movement
like a game of charades.

Outside this muted world
through the window
in the real world
cars passed on the road.

John Short lives near Liverpool again after a previous life in southern Europe. He reads at venues around Liverpool, Chester and beyond. He’s appeared recently in London Grip and Culture Matters and forthcoming in Flights and The High Window. His fourth collection is, In Search of a Subject (Cerasus Poetry 2023).