Rustling... Poem by Len Webster

Rustling or crinkling, who can convey the sound?
Better to have it as it is now,
Perfectly still and empty, devoid of contents,
Prostrate but still open to the world at angle,
Marvelling (as if it could) at the grey filth
Of the carpet that controls the floor.

Bowed before me, head towards me,
Like a Siamese subject at my feet,
The unruffled, unrustled carrier bag
Waits for the signal that will lift it
And raise it from foot to knee height
In a single movement.

Sublime in its imagery, it has identity,
Carries its own address and phone number
For me to jot in my diary;
Its name, The Orangery, coupled by my curiosity:

The Orangery at THE HOMEND?

An alchemistic conjuring of Hobbit and Shire
Briefly flaring in imagination
While unrustled, unruffled, uncrinkled,
And silent as death,
Unaware of the dirt on the carpet
And the bubble of water running hot
Through rigid pipes,
The Orangery at The Homend lies there
In its mystery,
A portrait of death prostrate at my feet.


(2003)