I have watched the morning rise
Since five, the dawn-blue shadows
Of the chimney-pots rested
On the gable ends like shapes
And contours from Picasso's Guernica.
And it is raining like a lost affair
Between the glass of the window
And the persistence of mizzle.
It will resolve itself, whatever
It is that has brought this on,
The unimaginable shadows
Pretty as diamond, the feeling
Of a kind of isolation
That dispirits the senses
Bringing about a melancholy
Not yet known.
And when the morning is finally
There I fall from bed cow-heavy,
Unable to imagine yesterday
Until I stumble across your letter
And something in me stirs,
The godawful dawning of isolation
Made pretty by a monologue
That trails into mind as I look
At the emptied bottle on the table
In remembrance of all things past
Until my smile shifts and dies
Knowing that what is done is done
And nothing can unchain itself
As my nostrils prickle with nostalgia
And I draw the curtains to bar the day,
Following on from where I left off
The day before.
If you've any comments on
this poem, John
Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.