Cold air seeps
beneath the door,
along the slabs,
across the floor.

Daylight weeps
through dusty glass
and embers grimace
grey behind the clenched
teeth of the kitchen range.

Two cats sleep
round and sound
upon the hearth,
hoarding their warmth.

Tendrils of cooking creep
and curl around
their nose and pose
succulent questions.

They cannot stand this inquisition,
interposed in their mind
between food and sleep.

So they unwind .

They stretch and yawn
and face the dawn.