There are still moments when the Absolute breaks through the dreaminess of life and these enchant me. The living, still photographs that one is captured and held in, fractionally and eternally. Their’s is the quality of suspension, lasting as long as the breath is held. In the dusty museum of my life I would hang them where they would stay mysteriously ever bright, portholes to another world.

                      I hung white lace at the window
                      And on the shelf clear glass
                      And blue.

                      Going mundanely
                      For sellotape and envelopes
                      And other stationery objects
                      I was caught by the sun
                                                 slanting in through the white lace
                      And the clear glass and the blue.
                      The beauty of their perfection
                      held me.

                      I find these moments of infinity
                      At unexpected times
                      And in the oddest places.
                      I don’t mention it.
                      There are names for people who think
                      The Gateway to the Universe is in their living room.