Wishful

There is a modernist in me
Or at least a soul
Who looks out for good quality

Which is then named as neat
Or right, or appropriate
Or correct, or well placed

He, as himself might care to be
Named by those self-same words
Particularly well placed

Instead he halfway tells us
Of an old love story
Which didn’t run its course

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Describe

The rug is blue
With a wide orange border

Part in shadow
Part in bright sunlight

The two settees
And three armchairs

Are placed with their backs
Against the common room walls

The floor is wooden
A long way from its best

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Knowledge

Will I know more
By Sunday lunchtime
Will I know more
By looking back at these notes

Will I have captured
The stillness, the breeze
The beauty, the love
The altogether me, just being

And what of those
Who were here before
Where are they now
What became of those poets

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Four Walls

Are these the trappings
A room to oneself
In the middle of the day

A room with French windows
Overlooking a garden
With birdsong and roses

I am also conscious
That I could have painted
The canvasses on these walls

I am though less conscious
Of my purpose; or of
What it is, which draws me here

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Love

There was a table
Now there is no table
Was there a water feature
There is one now
But unkempt, and overgrown

There was laughter
Most supportive
And much appreciated

There were children
Playing hide and seek
Also other games too
Which they had invented
All by themselves

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