I’ve been here before, many times in fact,
I recognise those featureless walls,
and I remember how those shelves got stacked,
I recall the dog-eared papers, the sprawls
of endless thinking, abandoned, let loose
to yellow by the window; left to fade
away to nothing; given no more use.
I remember the decor, overlaid
with a continuous print of anguish
and despair, I recall the dim-lit dust
lounging on the sofa, left to languish;
lazy sediments form a fragile crust.
. The blunted pencil and the knife’s dull edge,
. are sharp reminders of a broken pledge.

© Tim Grace, 14 November 2011

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To the reader: In a deceased house, the study quickly assumes the patina of abandonment. Without the daily shift of attention piles of paper lose their meaning and wilt under the weight of uselessness. The desk diary, the calendar, and the unwound clock fall behind on duties; with ill-found loyalty they grip tightly to the glory days. Curtains, once daily drawn, become fixed; gone is the regular pattern of a fresh start. It’s dull replacement is dust; sediments of dull dust.

To the poet: Without descriptive poetry characters have no backdrop; nowhere to convincingly dwell upon the page. It’s interesting that this sonnet has no human inhabitant, it’s about the absence of identity; but it’s all about an inherited character. Familiar features of the stagnating room are traced by the narrator’s reflective gaze. There is movement, but it’s designed not to be intrusive; motionless movement if there’s such a thing. Let the dust settle.

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