". . . and there shall be wars and rumours of war"
The folded paper on the chair
hides bleak despatches.
White walls of the hotel are strutted
with shadows where stairways climb
and cut back, baffling the perspectives.
In the pool, the plunge of brown skin,
shot with gold, the dive spouts
syllables of bright water.
The sun burns on the sea’s tent
melts into the deep gloom of its heart.
The afternoon holds like a pent breath.
Light pins each of us, vulnerable in our frailty,
alone on the earth. We look to gather
our shattered civilities, these quiet times,
when the sun flares from polished cutlery,
light through wine dances over the cloth,
‘Vien Malika’ eloquent from a plucked guitar,
silhouettes of vine leaves on the floor.
Shadows beyond this enclave
crowd our sanctuary,
winds from the sea press in,
flap the corner of the tablecloth,
bulge the canopy,
shake the dusty leaves.
© 2009 Arthur Seeley
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