Time fragments in a room
Time, you said, and slid out of bed.
I could feel the cold through the soles of your feet.
I can always feel that shudder
when you break the link
and let in the world.
and then it fell, slid into a heap
of dead leaves raked against the trunk.
I watched as you bagged it
before the hornets,
sleepy and only mildly irritated yet,
decided to attack.
The postcard on my desk beckons
with its coloured blinds and drying washing,
the racket I hear despite its silence,
and in the distance, Il Vesuvio
slumps like a blue and diaphanous slag heap.
Nothing paws the air like a cat
next to the stove,
daring you to stroke its stomach.
Combustion rumbles, red and hot,
a train in waiting.
Dark the window behind the open shutter,
black the night meadow.
We never shut it out not entirely.
Night, meadow, the night stalkers,
creep through the glass when we’re gone.