"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
If you spiral up these time-worn stairs,
lightly sunk from weighted feet.
7 o’clock sun glides past the tears
of years and years left obsolete.
The walls are painted smoke stain yellow
and cracks pulse through unhealthy veins.
while damp cultivates a corner in patched morello.
An open wound incurred from growing pains.
City dust sits on draughty windows.
but new breath sets it on a particle dance,
a waltz until they find the shadows
away to their own unlighted trance.
There is a universe written on these walls,
planets and stars from now grown children’s dreams.
The room has long forgot their tiny calls
but for the little moon like scars etched on its beams.
Find your own way out my dear,
the old man’s time is precious here.
He sits a while in dusky light
till all around him breathes in night.