Poetry Corner: Letters
By John R Parsons
letters
from people that I’ve never met
tucked in books, I carry their contents
to bed with me, having found them
on shelves in a bookcase where the corridor
bends and where I often pause on my way
at night, reluctant to turn in, names so
familiar now that I feel we’ve met, but
can fit no faces to, maybe we will meet
up in a dream, do they mysteriously hold
my name in some familiar corner of their
world, are we of the same age? Do we think
about similar things governing skylines or
creating strange noises in walls or hedgerows?
Do we see the same significance in the shapes
of stones or the twisted limbs of trees, or
attach an importance to the meanings of
certain arrangements of words, thoughts
and ideas? Do they get the same joy while
watching dawn sun rise behind a patch of
oaks to spread shimmering light through
its leaves, or even watching the translucent
full moon float over their ragged outlines,
or enjoy flocks of sparrows bathing below,
with lookouts dodging in and out of a hedge?
Bed covers now pulled up under the chin
I close my eyes to meet them in dreams,
where neither of us will recognise each other,
or even consider it worth asking, never
considering ordinary reality exists when there.
We hope you have enjoyed reading this article. The future of our volunteer led, non-profit publication would be far more secure with the aid of a small donation. You can also support local journalism by becoming a friend of HIP. It only takes a minute and we would be very grateful.
Leave a Reply