My lounge is a place of the heart. I think of carpets, sofas, the comfort of elderly visits. the surprise and birth of children. I remember family birthday parties with cake, blowing out candles and wishing. Spring with French doors open to roses, and horsechesnut trees. In whispers, I recall funereal buffets with soft weeping.
My study, however, is the silent home of my soul; of thoughts unspoken, turning into novels and poetry tapped out onto a plastic keyboard.
A sunlit room of oaken beams where dreams Stream flowing through fresh windows, Searching scarred shadows, papers shown, reams, Of prose, doomed epitaphs, mellow. Pastel portraits of animals long dead, Haunting, dog running, flowers, fields, The spring of adolescence, blossoms fed On a winter of shattered innocence, concealed. Figurines from ancient dynasties, Pagan, Hindu, Buddhist, and Abrahamic, hover in the mist of lost loyalties, Whilst the Virgin steps on the serpent's hiss, Outside the dark Cathedral of Trees, Inspires, bringing sorrow to its knees.
Copyright: Katy Walters