WRITE AT NIGHT
The room glows, there’s the warmth of cooking,
And the sweaty tug of a day’s labour on my back,
As my hand draws the door towards me as in a waltz,
And I alight from the house,
Into the embrace of night.
Gasping at that first draw of air,
My eyes tipping up to the tango of stars,
Body expiring the day into the dark velvet,
Touched by the soothing hands of air,
I stride into the street. It is hushed,
And yes there is the silence,
And the windows with their fabric eye-lids
Enclosing pictures of workers turning a gentle foxtrot towards bed.
But I am with the deeper sounds of the breeze,
Moving through leaves on the fingertips of branches,
Fluttering in the gutters as though plumping pillows for sleep.
And this breathing! As though my blindness
Is suddenly a doorway for the spirit to enter,
I am captured, I am breathed;
I am the dancing entrance to the cave
And the prayer that arises within it.
Then, as though making sense
Of all the voices of striving from the screen-lit room,
The domestic hiss,
A small voice flickers, and then flames
Through the walls of the cave, my mouth
And into the night sky…
If you want to hear it,
Step across the threshold tonight,
Peel back the curtain of your searching
And listen into the look of your eyes.