the early rising
the water falling
the endless running
thru sleeping suburbs
the familiar pressures
of our daytime warring
but they’re all applauding
his fine endeavours
and the timeless breathing
like curtains closing
the quiet daylight
and the curtains closing
the signal failing
the heart still racing
tho the day’s now passing
the curtain’s closing.
Now we’re watching telly
and they’re talking louder
through prints on mirrors
they’ve caught the killer
so we’re feeling better
all our sons and fathers
but in my bedroom
I hear you calling
your hand so gently
at the empty window
the curtains closing
and the heart is racing
the heart is racing
becoming light as feathers.
Image: my mother’s shag carpet and fly screen. Inspired (totally) by the fantastic Robert Wyatt. Here’s Richardson Road, through the English weather.
I like this – and the shag pile too.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Read through this piece a few times. For me it’s a beautiful and gentle mystery (even though the perpetrator was caught 🙂 ). I interpret but I know it’s me, the places I go. Well done. ⭐️
LikeLiked by 1 person
lovely poem.
LikeLiked by 1 person
lovely imagery and movement. skips along in one’s mind. 🙂
LikeLike
Thanks so much. Glad you liked it.
LikeLike