Every day I do nothing now -
light candles, drink tea, sit
in the old chair and watch
the usual slow-drift clouds.
Ash branches move together
in up-and-down beckoning
and the corner of a school
redbrick, pale brick, slate -
hums with children's voices.
Everyday I say to myself
Wait now, Gentle now... but
the carpet is a desert-place
of camels and palm trees
and someone comes in
with a message and a drink.
I should be doing nothing now -
undoing myself, waiting for
the pigeon flock of thought
to circle round the roof and
settle in the rafters of the house.
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