The Spirit of the Staircase

 by Lavinia Greenlaw     In our game of flight， half-way down     was as near mid-air as it got： a point     of no return we'd fling ourselves at     over and over， riding pillows or trays.     We were quick to smooth the edge     of every step， grinding the carpet to glass     on which we'd lose our grip.     The new stairs were our new toy，     the descent to an odd extension，     four new rooms at flood level     in a sunken garden - a wing     dislocated from a hive. Young bees     with soft stripes and borderless nights，     we'd so far been squared away     in a twin-set of bunkbeds， so tight-knit，     my brother and I once woke up finishing     a conversation begun in a dream.     It had been the simplest exchange，     one I'd give much to return to：     the greetings of shadows unsurprised     at having met beneath the trees     and happy to set off again， alone，     back into the dark.