He draws back curtains on a winter’s day.
It’s eight a.m. A charcoal sketch of trees
confronts him. All the world is grey
and unappealing. Nothing guarantees
a lowering of spirits as do scenes
like these. He peers outside. The thuggish sky
scowls back at him. Of all his small routines
this is the worst: he knows that, with a sigh,
he’ll draw these selfsame curtains yet again
in no more than a few hours’ time, when night
comes slouching from its prehistoric den
and all the birds of fortitude take flight.
He is a detainee, his heart in chains.
Love is a star long dead whose light remains.
*****
Richard Fleming writes: “Titles are often an afterthought in poetry, with first lines pressed into service as titles. For this writer, titles matter, and Curtains is a case in point. For those who grew up in the 1950s, curtains implied an ending, often death,
a sense reinforced by noir cinema. The poem Curtains treats the word both literally and symbolically: the daily opening and closing of curtains in winter becomes a measure of time passing and of life nearing its end.”
‘Curtains’ was first published in The High Window.
Richard Fleming is an Irish-born poet and humorist based in Guernsey, a Channel Island between Britain and France. Widely regarded as one of the island’s foremost literary voices, his versatile work blends lyricism, sharp wit, emotional depth, and a strong sense of place. Drawing from his Northern Irish roots and adopted home, his poetry and prose explore love, loss, nostalgia, identity, and modern life. Collections include Strange Journey (2012), held in the National Poetry Library, and Stone Witness (Blue Ormer) featuring the BBC-commissioned title poem. His work can be found on Facebook https://www.facebook.com richard.fleming.92102564/
or Bard at Bay www.redhandwriter.blogspot.com
Photo: “Good Morning, Sunshine.” by caiteesmith photography. is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.
Form in Formless Times 