Monday, 23 February 2009

Lacquer black

The first time we were close, I was gazing out of a window. Lost in the poetry of your words, I was drifting over bare red bricks and the black mirror stillness of a canal going nowhere and old mill chimneys long before the developers snapped them up. 

The damp rooftops watched you stroll around the corner ahead of me, along the ankle breakers of cobble stones on a street that so rarely saw the sun. Raincoated, humming softly, you shouldered the low hunch of the cloud blanket. 

I was still running after you as the greying town gave in to the violent lush rush of greens and snaking climbing walls along valleys that flooded at every turn. And I knew there were places you wanted to show me, but I was held captive, still listening, caught on the brambles of one image in the orange-lit room, to someone reading your river run, in the pooled reflections on the lacquer black grand piano as day drew in.