There is a gentle language spoken
by things that do not speak:
a Parka draped over a chair back,
a half drunk wine glass on the coffee table,
the sunlight sabring through an open window.

I have learned to listen
where silence gathers,
the lull between footsteps,
the in-breath before a name is called,
the pains that curl into the snug
where we used to spoon.

Sometimes I think
we are absence
more than presence,
the yin that sails
through the flower-heads,
the bright geometric flash
of the sun striking
the heads of neatly hung utensils.

And yet,
isn’t it a kind of saviour?
To keep hoping,
even when the page is empty,
to find a little meaning
in the weight of quiet things.