Nave


Fingers rest on the stony vein:
callouses worn smooth and cool
in the hush
the shh
the whisht, lad –

The chisel's edge and the pick-tip bite
and clash and clatter, cutting-in diagonals
and zig-zag seams. What rhythm!
Hymns and harsh percussion counter dole-down bass
as Durham's mighty columns meter out,
as regular as winding-work,
their partially-remembered years.

The moulded plastic skin, then, which I buy,
which fits that shape, and, painted well,
deceives the eye, is lacking all its weight:
form without the blows that formed it;
form abstracted from the form;
form-hollow, leaking sand.




Photographs




© No Spinoza
2011