I cooked rabbit all through the night of the gale.

I cooked rabbit very slowly; the oven temperature was low; I left it so, that we should sleep and then eat meat later.

The wind yawed at the window; threw itself, gusting, down the old chimney flue.

Rabbit wafted about the dark house, spiralling; in thrall to sudden draught.

The ghosts of rabbit flopped about the dark house, making warrens of air, while their legs in the pot simmered in liquid, their movements slow and slight, barely discernable, the stock limpid.

There was trace of rabbit in my hair as I lay, leaden-eyed, in bed. Again and again the wind charged the house, battered the bedroom window pane, blew dumb raw breath on to its stubborn surface.

Subtle scent of rabbit ascended. The flesh softened in the pot.

For a while there may have been rabbits on the stairs, making their way up, making their way down. Their flesh-slipped bones knocked rabbit music in our dreams.

The gale failed. The birds sang in the still air as we ate the rabbit, mindfully. The year turned and the old house settled on its stones.