. Lockdown The day sprawls wider than a yawn, a mouth that sucks a ticking clock, a door that lets the wind blow in, but no one comes to lift their fist and knock. The rain outside is free to run and fall and fling itself through puddles on the ground. I watch it slide down drains and kiss the pools below like fish with open mouths. I push the windows wide to let it in, and wish a meadow's green would come for tea. The kettle's on, for goodness sake come in and I'll invite the sea, eat chocolate cake with tiny spoons and sit on the settee. We'll be together outside-in, the sky below the roof. We'll lean on clouds with dragonflies, smoke cigarettes and talk about our youth. The wind will tell us where he's been, through all the empty streets. A sapling sits beside a stream, a starfish on his lap, with fog pulled tight over his knees, and sunshine on his feet. And when we're done, they'll bend their boughs, pick up their acorn buds, anemones and leaves, and say goodbye and kiss me at the door. The house will pull its sleeves of silence up once more, and all that will be left to show they've been are teacups in the sink and raindrops on the floor. . . Caitlin Venniker studied English at the University of Cape Town before changing direction completely and becoming a veterinarian. She lives between the United Arab Emirates and South Africa.