The woman is not mad but she dreams about snow piercing the windows of her house, snow tunneling through the earth to her cellar, moist flakes already forming on the sheets of her bed. Wind surrounds the house like wolves, sinewy as tree branches etched into sleep. Not quite the dream she expected: four white heads tucked beside her as she turns to see them there, neatly beside her, the blankets folded just under their chins, the air warm with the wool of their breathing.© Neile Graham
Previously published in DESCANT and Sheela-na-Gig, a limited edition chapbook.