Darkened room, ceiling fan spinning,
glass of Chilean red half an arm-length
away, desktop logically organized,
neighbour’s air-conditioner droning
beyond the window, door closed
against interruptions, screen glow,
clothes tumbling in the distant
laundry room, framed artworks
and book covers barely visible
in the comforting gloom, cricket bat
retiring in the corner, the Galway
bodhran silent atop the bookcase
beside a motionless globe and bronze
cast of the Brownings’ intertwined
hands clasped eternally above Stevie
Smith, Heaney, Housman, Muldoon,
Eliot, Kavanagh, Kerouac and Larkin.
A well painted ... poet's meditation?
ReplyDeleteExactly. Thanks, Lizz.
DeleteHa. That's so wonderful. Apart from the clothes going round, the only real movement is the speaker's mind. I love it.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Rob. I value stillness quite highly! :)
Delete