There must be a room, one small
room,
with white rough walls of no
colour,
holding the austerity of a cell;
a floor of smooth flagged stone,
keeping faith
with the under-earth;
a boarded ceiling hung just low
enough
to touch with reverence.
The single door must open to the
world,
to the summer stir of flowers,
light,
low-curving swallows;
there must be a window, wondering
at apple trees;
there must be a broad, low
workshelf wall to wall,
charted with quiet china and old
joys,
with jars of pens and brushes,
pencils,
thick white pads of empty, waiting
paper;
there must be a cat that comes and
goes,
lingering wellingtons, the threads
of music;
there must be baskets and a log
fire, whispering warmth;
there must be berries, books;
no single photograph to tangle
thought
but two deep paintings, still as
time;
a jewelled, eastern rug must sleep,
easy,
rich, dark-glowing, on the calm
polished stone;
two pale-winged chairs must
somewhere wait contented,
patch-worked with spring dreams;
there must be a narrow,
cotton-quilted bed.
There must be a lock and there
must be,
in the end, a key to such a
room...
(November,
1991)
