We began with the interlude | The audience looks round at itself, pores over programmes | Soon the great work will commence once more || With the silence of statistics | sixteen per cent of the country | 4,000 children every year | the water rises and | the concert hall duly shrinks | into other matter || It was not your daughter who drowned, it was not my | land stretching on, monotonously, so flat | to the unwatched horizon

When the music begins | it fits you to its purpose | and your lover, your home, your career | make a terrible and poignant sense | but only | inasmuch | as they are | conducted by the music | ordered through the music | suspended in the music | and when the interlude comes | suddenly the floating | building of beauty | falls back to earth || and your waiting watch | starts ticking again | Then, the silence | of a great flood | takes on a | terrible and poignant | salience | and the nature of the water | is changed | as water must | seem different to you | as you drown || How quietly the land | unfolds itself | the rooks | carp and curse | It is a long time since | I gazed at the | lie of the light | pooled | in a small | dell in your wrist, and | the big mirror in the old bedroom | has the complacence of an empty plain | Here, there are no deaths, and | life is uneventful••

from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, March 2013)