.

No matter how we invent this writing malarky

Or, how, precisely, we feel about it,

There is a wondering within our hearts,

And a hiding between the folds of our soul;

So much more than a mirror

Mumbling at us, incessantly,

"There's a story to be told,"

But all we hear is:

'Fear fear, fear terror, fear anguish'

Untold stories circle within us

As we try to live secretly.

Stories we hoard

And dole out to ourselves

When frightened or bored

As a way to lift us into 

A new mode of travel

Lanes and unadopted roads

Leading us to a borderland

Of ruins that we investigate,

At our peril, in  our own time:

Poems, novels, plays, opera, ballet, painting:

We bring these back to the multi-storey flats

To help us to see

Differently:

High windows, yes, but stained too,

Stained, with all that love can do.