The ornamental room
by Iain Britton
[ poetry - october 08 ]
He is used
to the wet creep of a hill
squeezing against his house,
the green metamorphosis,
the fungus
gardens flourishing
on window sills.
He's become used to the peripatetic life
of
crossing and re-crossing
vast wastelands of unvacuumed carpet,
of stepping around the toppled blocks of all he surveys.
From his
ornaments, he meditates
on the morning sun's heavy-breathing,
the bulking up of red clouds,
the
tapping of twigs on his guttering.
He feels you waking like a ceramic doll.
The first yawn crinkles. Your eyes open.
The
furniture straightens up
as he starts to polish his routines,
put a shine on the clock, on bones
set deep
in the walls.
The kettle boils.
The newspaper falls headfirst
onto the
floor. You mop up
toys not fully grown.
Voices vanish in different directions.
You grab
at them
and golden moths crash out of the sky.
The green hill shoulders heavily
and
rattles the ornaments,
footsteps kick in leaves.
The forests of this house smell
of small
pungent cultivations,
of hands picking oranges.
You've become so used to him
swooping
down and sweeping you off your feet.
He plays the perfect bridegroom.
He unveils you each night
and
dangles you above a collector's harvest
of ready-made beds. He pulls you in
and you run with his emotions.
