The poem arose from an exercise I set myself; to write about a once familiar room, to focus initially on the fabric of the room and let the centre be peopled as and when.
A familiar space.
Painted
polystyrene ceiling tiles,
the
unforgiving light from a fluorescent tube
that
emphasises the carpet’s swirling colours
forever
locked in a garish conversation
with
the bright, busy wallpaper.
These
days, this room
seems
to stoop, like you.
A
contraction that mirrors the years I have spent
living
with a
calm predictability
in
places where the walls merely whisper.
Every
time I enter this room
the
bulge in the floor is more pronounced
and
catching my eye, you always say
Whoever
lives here after me can mend it.
Sat
there watching reruns of cookery on tv
I
wonder if this is how a mountain begins,
those
first tentative probings before
the
fault line suddenly fractures in cathartic release
and
half of the house is either side
of
this new, stupendous great divide.
Perhaps
the carpet is pregnant, near full term,
about
to give birth to something
patterned
with swirls and flowers?
Then
again maybe not.
The
cookery programme unfolds,
an
enthusiastic presenter in a pretend kitchen.
I end this post with Anna Ternheim and Lars Winnerback singing Little Lies.
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