by Fiona L Bennet
Some mornings you open
the curtains and light falls
into your little world as if
all the chaos of the night
were suddenly evolution –
a wild growing busy
with silent intention;
a pile of books gestates
on the wizened armchair,
the small wooden figure
waiting for your sketches,
is poised, one leg lifted
for a leap that is always
just about to be taken.
The harmonica, sits pert
in its open case, nudges
into your cornucopia
of possible beginnings.
Address details:
On the platform by the ticket office
