A living room
From my living room
A sunday afternoon spent in my living room
The open windows let in the chill winter air
as it rustles the branches and leaves
and the gulls cry to eachother from the rooftops.
There is not a great deal to see
a rough stone wall, some hardy plants and a back road
but with the windows open
I can hear a fairer world than appears to my eyes.
The whispering breeze in evergreen boughs
teasing at the edges of my mind
rising to creuschendo
and dying back again in moments
Birds flit and warble to and fro
amongst the trash of our city
pausing now and again within my sight
and moments later I wonder if they were ever there at all
A cat lounges on the stones
gallant and proud despite the frigidity
apart from the world is he
ruminating over some important subject
Climbing the mortar vines grow
prising away stones
engulfing petty edifices
renewing in greens and browns
Pushing through the tarmac
tough grasses puncture
and rupture the toxic carpet
cracks seem to spread like veins
Old walls
Older than the humans they protect
are slowly crumbling
I see the sprouts thrusting from their rubble
Roots trace wounds
beneath deep foundations
through rock and stone and steel
slowly wearing through
Whistling and rustling sound their war cries
aggressing with bark and thorn
Tearing down and flourishing amongst
the petty hubris of the builders
Maybe many Sunday afternoons beyond now
there will be no living room
but maybe the space my living room was
will finally return to being living.
