Following by eye the dark beams
as they rise and meet, rise and meet,
learning these new rooms’ shades
of natural and artificial light,
I smell rain on stone, in the view
of a sky of stone, storey upon storey
of weavers’ apartments, long derelict.
Five years in a foreign country –
the ghosts are not my ghosts.
This morning I hummed a childhood tune,
this afternoon I rummage for the words.
Tonight clouds will obscure the stars,
forsake me in unnavigable water.
What’s to do but drop anchor; wait
and wake to the smell of rain, the view
of a sky of stone; hum an old tune
and wait, humming, for words –
