Alison Croggon's weblog

Another poem

No more than a day’s trivia, a phone
silent, a grey sky, a distant
sough of wind, and further still
the sounds of mourning, every leaf
attentive and calm, the diffuse light
mocking your restlessness:
you may sit there now, biting down
the answerless questions, but you know
that is merely evasion, and your flesh
a sourceless echo, comfortless
against the stellar cold.

Your words are not naked after all,
they clothe themselves in dazzle,
they see not straight but into
the flawed crystal, they elide
textures you could only imagine
in the bitter clarities of your dreams:
and as for you, you are left clutching
these remnants, rattling husks
of speech, loss, loss, and this quiet room
holds its breath as the windows darken,
waiting the knock of a stranger.