Roomination, contemplation of space;
four walls expanded beyond shape and size.
Perspective’s perspective so out of place;
distance confounds me and distorts my eyes.
Lost measures and linear illusions;
with points that vanish, leaving empty seats
as evidence; compressed conclusions;
unresolved memories, the pattern repeats.
She leaves with her red knitting in a bag,
the conveyor-belt of toast keeps burning;
Benedictine eggs and the daily rag;
room for thought; the matter’s quite concerning.
. Wait-staff, the living furniture at large,
. the Maitre de, the memory, in charge.

© Tim Grace, 22 December 2013

To the reader: Internal spaces are staged environments. Suggestive social scripts. Spatial storyboards that prescribe behavioural narratives. Static decor wrapped in layers of ambience. Light becomes warmth. Sound becomes tone. Smell becomes taste. A cast of unscripted characters becomes style. And so with warmth, tone, taste and style all playing their parts our senses come alive to the stories within.

To the poet: Mostly, a cast of unscripted characters will play their parts so well they remain invisible; leaving me to mine. Occasionally, from within the decor there’ll rise a character of interest. In this sonnet, it was simply a young woman knitting a red-scarf. She did nothing more than that… but that was unexpected.



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