for Martin Battye
Behind the eyes, behind the glass, beyond the horizon
of the visible is plain and simple light, the fire and smear
of colour suffused with its own luminosity, its sense of self.
And there you stand at the very centre of it, blazed, lit,
blown, by the world in which you find yourself, alone
in the middle of Monet’s field, of Seurat’s riverbank,
of a lusciousness you may dive into or luxuriate in.
So the world moves, you say. So it shimmers at noon,
so it offers its prospects as through an open window.
Here you may meet the hedonistic angels of the hour
spent late in bed, vaguely aware of light through the curtains
as they hover around you with their silent brooding,
eventually rising, as you do, to the water in the bowl,
to the dazzle of the tablecloth, to the orange neatly peeled
and the spiritual comforts of cereal, toast and coffee.
This is a version of the world you may fully believe in.
These are the limits of what is unbounded yet disciplined,
even the darknesses of which offer a sort of glowing.
Time to open the post, to study the writing on the sheet
of paper before you, time to enter the full consciousness
of those crazy dimensions and then to clear the table.