The Spare Room

I think of this small room as mine,

but know it isn’t; that others

come and go – fleeting shadows -

and gaze at the painting of azure seas.

When I return, there are still the shells

heaped and heady with a tang of salt.

Clasping their roughness to my ears

there’s the hissing lure of pounding surf.

Each day the quivering curtains

filter translucent light and warmth

on to my cool skin and pale wrists,

where blue-veined river deltas run.

I lie, drinking in the comforting view;

nothing is new, though time is less

and seasons seamlessly change,

like old dreams – an endless reprise.

 

 

(Published in 'Reach Poetry', June 2016)