“The moment undid gloom, for in it was the substance of everyday, the small and ordinary which, against catastrophe, is discovered marvellous.” *
Not all poets secure an attic garret
or tramp a woodland path,
notebook tucked in a tweed jacket,
essential, no matter the season.
Many wander city streets, ghost
in a crowd of faces lonely together,
lost in love. One brushes the poet’s hand,
slips a folded note, opening line
mercurial as memory,
a pebble dropped on water.
A Thin Silence 