February 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
A poem I wrote nine years ago and revised last weekend…
she lies all day
in the bath
higher than her head
watching the tidal flow
of shadows over plaster.
If I turned my head it would brush the ceiling
Under the stairs
a forest of watch chains
tolls and tolls.
If I put my hand out the window it would
skim the garden wall
A windowpane shivers:
if she lets the water slip over her ears
in her porcelain echo chamber
under the distant clangour
of a train
streaming towards Blackhorse Road
the muted groan of crystal vaults
scraping past each other.