Tiny Sirens

On hands and knees I enter the loft
Drawn into the slow motion
Of floating dust and bale debris
Leveraging breaths like rubber
Stretched between shoulders and ribs

The price of my admission is asthma
Which is psychosomatic
According to my grandfather

My wheezing is a descant
To the tiny sirens that guide me
Deeper into the straw world
I’m creeping through ochre shadows
To find a crèche of infant kittens