Bringing It All Back Home
To leave one’s notebook in plain view signals some kind of declaration, a piece of the secret realm rendered visible. I sit in my dressing gown, smoking in a room where I shouldn’t, play games in perspectives,
the tin lantern with glass chimney becomes a primitive hut,
star cut holes sealed with emerald glass, windows.
It’s too cold to write. I try anyway. Stitch images
The moon illumines frosted leaves at the window.
Runic pines silhouetted on the snow-clad hillside.
White blobs of stars and two raised discs,
earthworks on the horizon.
A bridge crosses a stream full of stars
That kind of thing.
Those shapes on the hill, if only I knew the language.
Was that creak a footstep? The door left ajar…
I’m the tramp in the forest
bringing the key home to you.
Jonathan Chant is a lecturer, poet and performer. He has been published in Obsessed With The Pipe Work, Tears In The Fence, Caduceus, International Times and by New River Press.