Midwinter 2007. Poem by Ian Kellett

The chatter about,
The whispers of disparate tongues;
Offshore sounds of the morning
Inland after lunch.
The passing of unfastened people
With tightened feet
Well sprung.
Idle light filtering in;
The sun barely hung on the
Rooftops across from my window,
Tricking my lids,
Keeping me slept until teatime
By which time
It’s breakfast.
Eating by numbers
A meal unencumbered by me
Or my labour,
Unable to know what is in it
Unless told by the box
Of its flavour,
And folding the time
To the next
Tricky meal
By scribbling text
To offset its fever in me.
This island of mine
Is a slave to the tide
And grateful
To hold me
Over.