6 Apr 2017


It comes through worn plaster,
reverberating past the pale
cold of a sideways landscape,
vibrations of something
shy, eluding words.

There it is
and then you know.
Smile; have a tear
pulled from your eye.
Move along walls
searching for doors, a window—a way
to the source, or
just a glimpse.

Then, nothing:
the moment’s fled.

Exposed like old photographs,
memory of the serene
becomes sun-bleached, gloss
lost, a paper testament defiled.
The light of day is the cruellest thing.