There’s something in the air says maybe tomorrow it’ll snow. I’m walking back to a new house from somebody else’s bus stop. A shopping bag’s caught in a tree. A moon glows in a neighbour’s window. The key works, though I could be anyone, and the front room’s an unfinished jigsaw of boxes. The streetlights warm up as the kettle boils, and I picture my old place, its cupboards all open, its rooms filling slowly with snow.

Joe Caldwell