Memory Of Light by Michael Murray
The immediacy of brick and stone
that March light sluicing through atmospheres
filters onto. If this were parkland
the pooling petrol of light would bare
the discrepancy between early March and the lateness
of this travelling light more subtly,
let loose on the air a freshness.
Smell, still itinerant has yet no rust
contracted for fermentation; gardens
still champ at their bits, rousing to be off.
Brick warms its glow in the light’s chill;
the pavement takes notice: kerb, gutter
and roadway, sharpen their angles,
nudging for further notice – sit up,
tightening the light to a tremble
adjusting its spectacles
to focus more approximately.
A house holds focus, windows
streaming; all else swings around it.
But it cannot come out to play, kept in
like light beams internally refracting.