I am undone -
resonating, thrumming
with feelings out of time.
Suffused with the scent
of orange, clove and cinnamon.

The house on Folgate Street
has me, whole,
powerless against an eternity
of mutating, shifting
happenings and moments.

Twice, the black cat followed me.
Dully gleaming fur
reflecting a landscape
of bunched bedclothes,
that it batted
then bunched some more.

Between the rooms,
landings captured me -
miniature palaces
hung with candied fruits
and mercurised pools
where I dove in naked longing
into both our pasts.

Huguenot shadows
writhed and climbed,
in faded effervescence.
The motes permitted not to utter
a word of breath.

With freshened eyes
I farewelled an age of deeds
in whispered thanks.

How long I stood at the corner
I cannot say.
Rising from a dream
has never taken so long.