James Pickles The Arms of Spring


The Empty Room

Outside the dark fills up the windows.

Watch the room. Feel the silence beneath
the low hum of silence; here in the stillness
there lies the memory of action, movement,
of people walking and conversation.
Thoughts patter idly on the roof like rain
but do not reach here. The heart subsides
its hectic pulse, slowing; beating deeper.

Thoughts are full of weary distances,
and in one day you can die in the desert.
But leave your journey; come home now,
where the eyelash moves on the quiet page,
(hardly touching) here in the silence;
here in the silence.
                                I promise you rest.