Room
A slow movement and thoughtful gestures
Towards making some sort of difference.
Possibilities arise, but are left unstated
As silence grows up all around us
Like ivy over these ancient walls.
Outside time moves on, indifferent
While, within these walls, each clock tick
Is no more than a memory, lingering
On the very edge of consciousness.
We move through ourselves like ghosts
Each still sitting in these same chairs
As our thoughts shift around, dancing
Like dust caught in summer sunbeams.
But we always return to these same seats
And take up these postures once again.
A slow movement and thoughtful gestures
Towards making some sort of difference.
Possibilities arise, but are left unstated
As silence grows up all around us
Like ivy over these ancient walls.
Outside time moves on, indifferent
While, within these walls, each clock tick
Is no more than a memory, lingering
On the very edge of consciousness.
We move through ourselves like ghosts
Each still sitting in these same chairs
As our thoughts shift around, dancing
Like dust caught in summer sunbeams.
But we always return to these same seats
And take up these postures once again.
[First published in To Paint A Picture – Michelle Arfford (ed) Poetry Now 2006 ISBN 1-84602-043-3]
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