The intense sense

By 25th August 2008December 9th, 2019No Comments

The Doctor has said, “Forget it, my friend.”
So sadly said, “For you life does not extend.”

I have found new life from this sorrow
And strength, born of knowledge,
And relief, born of that same knowing;
Each item has become more intimate –
Touch, sight, sound, smell and taste. My Sense.
All that sense, so much, much more intense;
I am like a baby watching the world
From recently opened eyes;
Seeing – the plastic flower beads
Bouncing on the air currents
And slowly realizing, these are new.

The chair is functional and slightly padded,
It wobbles on its four wheels as I sit.
There is a smell of office plastic,
Modified with the static-charged odour
Of the ranks of officious stationery.
Glossy metal presses on my ankle
And a stubby, cold wheel, my woollened foot.
I lean on a modern desk of faked wood;
My eyes skim the surface of the desk,
A fly lands, six-legged and Harrier like,
On the surface of the walnut stained
And well-scratched, straight-grained runway.
Small, dark dents map the desk’s life:
The scrape of an ashtray
Or the heavy, wooden box,
The nick from pen or knife
And the mark of a hot cup,
Which has spilled some coffee
And spoiled the polish and stain.
The surface is slightly sticky,
The hand vibrates on the polish –
An odd pursed-lip sound.
My knees are in their hollow
And I can feel, with my legs,
The sticky, polished sides;
Those straight and angular sides.
Such strength in this desk
Can I feel, even with my legs.

My hand and arm extend outwards,
So slowly; time has stopped;
So fast does my mind now work.
My hand touches a key,
It is chill to touch and plain to feel,
Coldly functional, oddly still.
My fingers twist it.
My eyes watch –
My ears listen –
Faintly –

Softly, softly, catch a sound,
Softly, softly, see a sparkle,
Brass glides on brass – then click.
I pull the door open,
Feeling the wood grain,
Sliding my fingers over the wood,
Scenting the heady season,
Watching the bright, brass hinge,
Hearing the rustle of papers,
Tasting the disturbed dust.
Sunlight falls on the brass hinge
And bright light echoes
From the well-worn metal.
Dust swirls in the light
And the fly tumbles and turns
In the man-made thermals.

Chris Green

Author Chris Green

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