A room by the river.

Where lights, shadows, colours and seasons chase each other on
somnolent afternoons.
Musty books fill your nostrils with dust and half-forgotten stories.
Scrawlings recall raw ramblings
of thoughts peeping into the banished world of fantasy.
Myriad memories - dim, compelling - assail your senses to suffocate
the present with longing for the what now are tales.

Stark white walls, mirroring loss and indifference. .
Walls that pierced your eyes as pain threatened to asphyxiate you,
indifferent to pain bouncing off your core.
Walls that emphasised numbness, in a heart ever receptive to love.
and at other times inflamed emotions to fever pitch, in a tumultuous silence.

Still, long, indolent summers of waiting, lying on crisp white sheets
to the eternal music of rustling leaves in the wind.
Counting the years past, silently seething in the stifling heat.
Cooling off with the lengthening shadows and golden music.

Unceasing rain...
Dripping down the glass panes, trespassing onto the mosaic floor,
mute witness to the first stirrings of desire and all that is timeless.

Serene, autumn, harbinger of separation.
A time of restless leaves and russet sunsets.
Claret evenings paint ever shifting patterns into grieving eyes.

Cruel winter closes all doors, and lets in oblivion and warm wooden
doors assist gentle mourning.

Peace lurks by the old photo albums, peeping out intermittently during
spells of untimely showers, while every corner harbours a part of
myself.
In a room that looks into me. And heals.
Time and again.