Sunday, 11 August 2013

Shepherd's Crook

A synthetic perfume
triggers the shape
of a shepherd's crook.
Outside of museums
I have never seen one.

Vague memories of cream walls
a green armchair, the open door
sunlight coming in, the light split
into geometric sections.

Brooding, behind, under all of this
a large nose and a face shaded
by the peak of his flat cap.

The memory becoming submerged
like everything's under water.
That's white, not cream on the walls.
Black waves emanating from the figure
sitting in the armchair to mingle
in the clear blue water
of drowning memory.

The blocks of sunlight
cannot penetrate that water.

Surely that's
a shepherd's crook
propped in the corner?

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