© by Colin Davis
home is of paper streets, stone, alcoves;
anything to hand and in that hand her hand
even swiftly moving overlooks the glade.
anchors softly to desire, sheltered from a pyre
where you can hear the bell crier
as if a world on fire
previous and before at the base of my spire
stopped by a door
premonitions from the floor
in from the moor with my coat wrapped round.
home is lemon rind left behind when the rain substituted the sun.
after coiled sleep my lifted heap I can start again.