I saw the world from a distance; that was what the world was. There was another, I keep with me, speak of with quiet reverence or it speaks with me.
there is a small circle of people, a small and bright disc lying in the dust. i bend to pick it up and my hand grows old.
In the old country, in the old times, near the black sliding gate, large enough to allow five horses to pass through it. In the shed sacks of coal, on the walls shards of broken glass to keep intruders out. In the dust you found an old twopence coin from 1837. Inside you found an old red penny stamp from George..you forget now. And there were other such findings, things people had left behind or misplaced. Like a stack of old 78s, which you played and were amazed to hear a distant voice from the past rise to the surface above the scratchy sounds. Some living person had once sung this, and another had listened to it or maybe even danced to it with sparkling eyes and love in their heart, only to fall, and fall.
You found many things in the house and perhaps someone after you has found a few of our old things: letters in an undecipherable script, blue aerograms, beautiful curving letters and dots, themselves great travelers from Persia and the sanskrit of the heart; fading yellow photographs, our journeys to Penarth pier, the edge of the world, to view the fading sun. The dougal pretending to read a math book; the swami pretending to play the piano. You can play the first few keys of 'once in royal David's city', the notes of pure Wales entering your soul...
What is all this navel gazing when the face remains hidden?
My hands are becoming hairy. Moles and freckles and blemishes appear from nowhere. There are no new lines on the reverse side. I stand in the calm mid-morning light, waiting.
there is a small circle of people, a small and bright disc lying in the dust. i bend to pick it up and my hand grows old.
In the old country, in the old times, near the black sliding gate, large enough to allow five horses to pass through it. In the shed sacks of coal, on the walls shards of broken glass to keep intruders out. In the dust you found an old twopence coin from 1837. Inside you found an old red penny stamp from George..you forget now. And there were other such findings, things people had left behind or misplaced. Like a stack of old 78s, which you played and were amazed to hear a distant voice from the past rise to the surface above the scratchy sounds. Some living person had once sung this, and another had listened to it or maybe even danced to it with sparkling eyes and love in their heart, only to fall, and fall.
You found many things in the house and perhaps someone after you has found a few of our old things: letters in an undecipherable script, blue aerograms, beautiful curving letters and dots, themselves great travelers from Persia and the sanskrit of the heart; fading yellow photographs, our journeys to Penarth pier, the edge of the world, to view the fading sun. The dougal pretending to read a math book; the swami pretending to play the piano. You can play the first few keys of 'once in royal David's city', the notes of pure Wales entering your soul...
What is all this navel gazing when the face remains hidden?
My hands are becoming hairy. Moles and freckles and blemishes appear from nowhere. There are no new lines on the reverse side. I stand in the calm mid-morning light, waiting.
the things we love, the unseen things,
take flesh, of course, in what can
be seen and said, though never
absolutely, one to one…
…there’s always a little too much
or a little too little, the seams remain on the surface,
fingers jut, buttons, umbrellas, fingernails…
uncollected letters in azure airmail envelopes,
the sense of shortfall or excess remains…
…but just wait 
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