Friday, 30 August 2013


I have just shut the door to this small room,
shutting the cat and his mewing in with me,
the budgerigar next door making mock-human noises,
the Coronation Street omnibus playing away
to my quiet mother.

I have shut the door because
I want to be alone with you, in this thought:
the other night, near sleep, I considered
what it might be like
if you were someone else, and
I did not know you:

what it would be like 
if I saw your small mottled eyes,
that mousy face of yours,
somewhere between peaceful and despondent,
peeping strangely out at me
from a crowd;

if I noticed those filmy, watery globes, that 
gorgeous smile you wear when you're amused,
that gorgeous little smile that hides your quirky teeth,
that gorgeous little smile that caps your silent tongue
which works away wordlessly, but not wordless, behind 
closed doors, producing works of great beauty and great import,

if I saw your eyes, curtained with those long dreamy lashes,
I would want to come over to you and talk to you,
because I have noticed you - unlike how you
do not notice yourself. I would want to comfort you.
I would want to ask you where you come from
and what the weather is like there.

But I do know you, and, as such,
I know what the weather is like where you come from.
It is always sunny. And it is always raining.
And the clouds sweep like cobwebs through the sky.
And you stand there, alone in a field, golden sun like honey on your face,
rain like wool weaving you into the washed landscape.

I could paint you, now, standing there.
But what I would rather do is step into the picture with you,
hold you, sit there with you, drenched and sunned, blown dry
in the gentle wind, lie down with you in the grass,
survey, and say, "Yes, here is where we will build our house. 
Yes, here is where we will make our bed. Yes."

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