A tap turns, a
cleansing stream, as
colour drains from
this room.
Shadows draped
a different space
as evenings dim
and stories grow,
their own soft light
folds evening’s
wings around.
A tyranny of
the hard days light
where motes are ready,
dusty dancers bright
as atoms, in shafts of light.
Horizons mock
of all the ways
to distant lands, and
missing friends who
gaze out through
other windows.
A chair in here
a bed in there
a picture skewed
on a painted wall
past books I know,
and others
I’m promised to.
Bird song fades
under quiet skies.
Exercise done,
so no return
to see a song
of silver lights,
that cast our dreams
on plague black seas.
© Dai Fry March 7th 2020.