This poem has been with me for years in one shape or another. I've posted more than one effort in the past, but was never convinced. All versions go on display, but, like a photographer's work, there'll always be one photograph that has the edge; I think this has the atmosphere I've been searching for. There's a good chance I won't look back at this for a while in case I meet disappointment. Come another book though, I'll have to weigh it up.
Behind the Glass
Every day, sitting at her window,
looking out onto the street of her life,
empty now.
Her face, just her face, hanging
behind the glass;
a room untroubled by sunlight;
the darkness of a Rembrandt portrait
and wearing old age like a mask.
She's waiting for the street’s stories
but the street has nothing to say;
she continues, daily
staring into the space where her life was.
No comments:
Post a Comment