John Burnside. The Soul as Thought Experiment
Some days, it's enough to stand your ground.
Wind on the road and that coal oil and mackerel sheen
on everything you see; the wet
leylandii turned in the rain, like the fur-lined gaps
in children's books;
the blood eyes in the wall
no longer what you feared, but sweet as love
and feral, like the soul you disallow
to call this home.
It's winter now, and late in the afternoon,
but though it's a long shot, you still believe someone will call
from far out in the hills, the moonlight falling
sidewise through a casement, as she speaks
of history and colour, celadon
and murrey, and those days of ironwood
or ginkgo, where you cannot help but think
of kinship, at the point where snow begins
on some black road you thought was yours alone,
made bright and universal, while you listen.
