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.