The Glass Between
I see the moon hanging like an old dog tag in the sky
and I hear the owl send out its two notes searching. I
know all that I see and all my knowing is transparent.
Looking inwards is living only half a life. I frame the
some view, a bedroom scene, a brittle theatre of tears,
sleep, surrender. I specialise only in beginnings and
endings, An empty wine bottle and two glasses, black
tights hanging in shreds from a top drawer. I have no
time to reflect on the eddy and flare spilled out by her
dress before she blinks out of view. She can blind me.
Conversations disappear around doorframes. I try out
gifts of sunbeams but when she touches me she starts
back at the splintering cold. All I can offer is soda ash
silica and limestone. I watch as the first streaks of sun
fenestrate the sky and I see a woodpecker stitching the
lawn in search of worms. I might amuse myself today
by splitting light or if I feel inclined I may focus a fire.
Ilse Pedler lives and works full time as a veterinary surgeon in Saffron Walden. She has had poems published in Poetry News, 14 magazine and Prole and writes in the car inbetween visits or in the half an hour in bed before falling asleep.