A room with deciduous walls betrays
The expectations of hauled feet, pushed
Through distance towards safe ground.
Unsteady murmurs, now hushed,
And gently patterned, join waves
That resonate in lithe air. The waning sound
Of breath and function slowly calms
The song to fade, and the light that cuts
Down all other senses is naturally laid.
This bright shine is a conqueror of space. It routes
Its way through narrow canyons with arms
Of stray ambivalent energy made
Generous and tender, like the eloquent touch
That grips a shoulder or holds a brow
In warmth when need is laid out raw.
Small dances over dark boughs
Cast flecks of lime on beaten mulch,
Laden like the London stones which poor
Travellers dream with, though bright dreams sleep
Too well. The rugged close cannot keep them
Safe but absorbs desire without judgement
And carelessly reshapes it as root and stem,
Whilst all marks wither. But dry time seeps
Into moist gullies, forming structure like wet cement
Until the roof is raised above the players hall,
Where a symphony chimes with faint
Regards, a sentimental composition of stone and wood
Placed with cool exact restraint.
And the light that cuts these upright walls
Obediently lies the way it should.