I am now at the stage of shutting doors, against
Rainfall and nightmare; doors, left
carelessly half ajar.
At the half-way stage of rusted wheels
and wires,
Entanglement of sharp thorn- branches,
closing off
Invisible roads, obscure signposts, of
what
Once was, but cannot be born again now.
I bend down to pick up scattered dusty
shards,
Tea-cups, torn papers, full ash trays
left on a small
Table, and carpeted corridors, empty of
unexpected
Visitors, who seldom knock, but enter
now,
Or leave early if they do, without
pebbled words
In their mouths, or acknowledgement in
glazed eyes.
I am now at the time of carefully
locking windows,
And doors at night, before mounting
stairs,
To sleep, or else to lie with scratched
open eyes,
Staring at dark walls, blank ceiling,
or shut windows;
I am an insomniac, turning like dark
waves,
The noise of waters, against a dark
shore.
When at last, asleep, I recall –
myself, alone
Outspread like water or a bent flower.
Where the sun takes off her shoes and
walks
Among trees, splashing like wind or
rain;
And the moon removes her clothes and
sings
Like a nightingale, lost among green
branches,
The moon’s body is made of mother of
pearl
She shines like a candle-lit human
skull;
I want to embrace her naked as wind,
I want to embrace her as a sultry wind
In Spain does, among chill cherry
trees,
Or distant hills of mist before ashen
nightfall.
Alan C. Brown
