Near Distance

At last the heart makes its way 
past sadness, regret, 
grows at ease with shadows 
that move like humble servants 
about the room, 
sweeping up words 
where they had fallen 
as dust motes, unconnected 
from anything we meant to say; 

brushing the edge off memory, 
turning it face downwards, 
tending its slow seepage 
into the daily habit 
of absence 
under one roof.

 


first published in The World Record: International Voices from Southbank Centre’s Poetry Parnassus (Bloodaxe, 2012), © Esther Phillips 2012, used by permission of the author

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