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My Poem
Sestina

Except the paper rustling in the breeze
The library is warm, bereft of sound
The dust and cover slipping from your hands
A wall piled high to keep away the crowd
So savour this, the empty gift of time
And think upon the paper and the clouds.

Forgotten plumes of white twist into clouds
They curve and sail upon the careless breeze
Beyond a window cold to piteous time
They never will be reached by plaintive sound
And are a shadow of the silent crowd
Who hold a concrete judgment in their hands.

Remember now the small shape of her hands
Or failing that, the patterns of the clouds
The day the lonely smiled amongst the crowd
Her roll of lace had fluttered in the breeze
A friend, whose laughter lit the air with sound
From my own fault, forever trapped in time.

You only ever wanted to have time
And now you find you have too much at hand
Along the corridors, you catch the sound
Of laughter high above the drifting clouds
And from a room, a wisp of gentle breeze
As if inside were patterns, lace and crowd.

There too, are shrieks of laughter from the crowd
In joyful youth that seems to shatter time
They override the rustlings of the breeze
Each one their own, a judgment in their hands
They each must surely think upon the clouds
Though if they did, they would not make a sound.

The heavy armchair does not make a sound
In memory alone can there be crowd
Those pensive windows will keep out the clouds
Those gates are far too cold for piteous time
So always out of reach of searching hands
Will be the friend whose lace flew in the breeze.

The paper in the breeze, with rustling sound
Could not bring back the lace, the hands or crowd
So think of time, and stare upon the clouds.

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