How to phrase it? Neither time nor space, exactly; let’s say
our habitat. Take childhood. The way a door opens
through a wall into the garden where the track leads

to a pond, flat mirror at the centre, and the day’s ephemera
- bracken, clouds, branches, seeds – are gathered in
and taken down. You could lean over and gaze for hours

into the depths. Or recall the Old Custom House at Wells
and stand at the upstairs window to watch the marsh tide
swell, lifting the stranded yachts off the mud flats,

their geometric sails tranquil between sparring gulls –
then turn round to see our sparse white room catching
the intermittent flash and gleam, as the water glistens

and glides. Reflections of reflections of reflections:
enclave for reverie. Or take the winter room where
now we sit: the red blinds down, turquoise plate,

stone Buddha, the haphazard pile of half-read books –
how these things draw us in, calm and concentrate.
Here time suspends its reckless flight. We move between

adagio and interlude; the tempo slow, intimate.
In the grate the wood blazes against the burning rings
of soot. The steady flames flutter into the infinite.18_peregrination.html