Poetry Corner
Willows
The lamp burns only fifteen watts, but switchIt out: darkness hangs like an eiderdown
Drawn over a child’s eyes, sealing the night
Into the room. She’s sleeping now, her frown
An echo of the day before, her breath
Graceful at last.
I close the book, and press
Her forehead, smoothing down the hair. She’ll wake
When she wakes. Now — contemplate the mess:
The socks, the stones, the sorting toys. Remember
Childhood? God knows where the time goes.
Snake shapes at twilight, coiled in the curtains;
The cracked owls on the painted screen; the rows
Of broken dinky cars arranged along
The sideboard.
Gone. But Rat and Mole and Toad
Revolve, still, in their endless boating whirl;
While caravans lie shattered on the road.
Outside, the lights glow yellow, and the buzz-bikes
Howl; the drunks are blundering home.
Wind sifts the willows — and we turn stories
As I had stories turned, long years ago.
Timbers creak beneath me as I creep
Across the room; the up-train shakes the beams;
And still she sleeps, with shivers on her lips
For stories, germinating in her dreams.
It’s time to leave.
But she knows where we’ll be:
Down with the flickering screen, the whimpering
World; and still she’ll sleep, while my concerns
Will shift like willow trees. Whispering, whispering.