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.