Wednesday, 20 June 2012

The Mirror

Sparks. Steel.
Prophetic weather
at a place we might
call a boundary
where the mirror
leans against the wall.

The sloping floor
leading to another room
identical to the one
we're sitting in.

Let's step onto that tilting floor.

Never to be seen again
because no-one thought
to follow us.

2 comments:

  1. This poem appears to discover the miraculous door in the wall that leads to the tilting room where things at last begin to (dare one say it) stabilize.

    ("Prophetic weather" proves to have been a fair enough auspice.)

    It's the first-person-plural companionship in the "let's" that really lifts us over the top, onto the plane of that surprisingly even-keeled escape into the privacy of a place where we would not wish to have pried in any case, some things being (as was once said) sacred.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Sacred, yes. Mirrors seem to keep turning up in my reading and thinking at present. Thanks for your thoughts Tom. Very appreciated...

    ReplyDelete

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