for Graham Davies
A moving tableau, so to speak.
On the same couch, week after week,
Talking of absence, I can see
Its likeness bearing down on me:
The ceiling blankness. But if I
Let my glance fall to where the sky
Through the broad window hangs behind
The web of garden life, I find
Love I’d thought dead diffused among
Bright songbirds; they with inhuman song
And vivid colour, as they feed
At the bird table, hit my need
For harmony. And then your voice
Behind me, beyond reach of choice,
Speaks out of darkness and dismay.
De profundis, Domine.