All that love can do
a tale told by an idiot
Or, how, precisely, we feel about it,
There is a wonder within hearts,
And a good hiding of souls;
So much more than a mirror or a wi-fi
mumbling, incessantly,
a story to be told,
all we hear is:
‘fear poverty, terrorist filth fear anguish, rope, anger, death, grief: time diminishes, the pale horseman rides
untold stories encircle us still
as we try to live secretly thrillingly
stories hoard themselves in our imagination
which we dole out to ourselves (sparingly)
when frightened or bored
as a way to lift us into
a new mode of travel down
lines and lanes of unadopted roads
leading to a borderland
of ruin that we investigate,
at our peril and in our own time:
poems, novels, plays, opera, ballet, painting: let’s bring these back to the multi-storey flats
help us to see
differently:
high windows, yes, but stained glass too,
stained, with all that love can do.
John E Marks 2023
