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The room is like a cave
the opening to the day the window
I sit close
almost outside where
I would hang in the air
almost inside where
heavy I inhabit this chair
outside freedom of movement
and light that dances in the tree
and beyond buildings in which
live the bodies and stories of strangers
My daughter wrote yesterday
preferring not to meet when I go
not to get together
no hugs no smell of her hair
as I did when she was a child
now I have the window on the world
and dream into its' light
watching the day ebb away
waiting for the night
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Chilling. But universal. Strange how we use the image of the cave (Plato, Larkin etc). Like it's an architype lodged somewhere in our collective psyche. It was in the mood of this poem that my old aunt said children are lent to you, not given.
