Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
I see her in the window.
After a hard day’s work
she looks at the flowers
and wonders how to arrange them-
a large blue surrounded by white, red
or leaves to go with the curtain pulled back
to let in afternoon light,
on the wall
a picture catching their reflection-
two children
and a husband who works far off
but comes home
when time and money permit.
When the old clock on the mantel strikes the hour
she’ll resume
where she left off-
feeding the gold fish,
straightening bedspreads
and preparing the evening meal
with herbs raised from seedlings
occasionally
the sprinkles land on my side.
Not that I don’t do the same
or she is unable
to lead the many out of conflict,
but for the moment
her identity is centred in tending to bruises,
checking whether a smile
is shallow or real
and with a tried and tested pattern
distributing vitality to the organs
and limbs
an altar lit up
with candles,
a native plant in the corner
a wind chime beyond the door.
No one shall break the bonds
between all who belong under her roof,
a stray will not go unfed
the cold wind deflecting from the smallest room.
She enters her garden,
selects an iris
and hurries inside
later,
I see it propped on the sill awaiting the decision
that will transform empty space
into a lift under her heart
and a wish
someday, someone like her
will help me choose a colour
to go with an open fireplace
and charred wood.
After a hard day’s work
she looks at the flowers
and wonders how to arrange them-
a large blue surrounded by white, red
or leaves to go with the curtain pulled back
to let in afternoon light,
on the wall
a picture catching their reflection-
two children
and a husband who works far off
but comes home
when time and money permit.
When the old clock on the mantel strikes the hour
she’ll resume
where she left off-
feeding the gold fish,
straightening bedspreads
and preparing the evening meal
with herbs raised from seedlings
occasionally
the sprinkles land on my side.
Not that I don’t do the same
or she is unable
to lead the many out of conflict,
but for the moment
her identity is centred in tending to bruises,
checking whether a smile
is shallow or real
and with a tried and tested pattern
distributing vitality to the organs
and limbs
an altar lit up
with candles,
a native plant in the corner
a wind chime beyond the door.
No one shall break the bonds
between all who belong under her roof,
a stray will not go unfed
the cold wind deflecting from the smallest room.
She enters her garden,
selects an iris
and hurries inside
later,
I see it propped on the sill awaiting the decision
that will transform empty space
into a lift under her heart
and a wish
someday, someone like her
will help me choose a colour
to go with an open fireplace
and charred wood.