Slow to clear

 

Slow to clear

There’s one light out there.
The fog isn’t yet what it may be.
Twice I lift and let fall my hand
pretending to sketch the pillared folds
of the curtains dropping clean
either side of the window.
I turn my head.
The room nudges up
its all but colourless angles.
It is dawn.  It is morning.
It is no time.  On the wall
is a painting of a boat
run up on nowhere sands
perhaps Rosslare
or granite Brittany. 
Around the light switch
the plate snags a fugitive gleam
like the draff of riches.
I hear whistling cut from a body
in the murk.  I hear the grizzle of motion
as an engine crests and sinks
below itself.  The fog thickens.
The one light disappears.  On the path
a cat stalks a single fetch of shadow
in hope that it has enough give.
It steps in and never was.
And now a single cry far out on that sea
could be the very world
unfastening its soul
rocking against the effort
then for all time still.