I added this photo to my previous Dylan Thomas write as well... it's his "boathouse", his writing shed in Laugharne, South Wales. xx

STILL LIFE


A still life, missing something
– an object: me, I think.

So this is what it’s like,
your room, when I’m not in it:

an undisclosed space,
a nod and a wink
between ceiling and floor;
a shake of hands
between windows and door;

welcome relief from weathered
assault, yet still the wind rafts
ghostly curtains as if to rid
the walls of dreams.

Unaccountably, light has not
detected me, travels instead
straight through my presence
to assure the bed, the table,
of their meaningful existence.

It imparts to the mirror a bold,
epiphanic instant; blesses
the brass with firey awakening
and bids a framed dusty road
come alive and be travelled.

Each is convinced of its weight
in the world – except your shadow
as it stands, hands on hips,
exhaling sighs,

absorbed in the outdoor cloak of night,
measuring distance between stars,
its light-headed pulse counting beats
in the bar of our favourite song.

So which of us is here?

For all our ground-breaking advances,
the tragedy of absence has never
been eradicated or transformed;

but this is still life
and I am still breathing.
I think.