A Persian Poet's Pen.

.... for the sake of......

There’s a red carpenter’s pen lying in the grass next to the letter box that stands at the end of the track running up the hill to the piano teacher’s house.

It’s short, simple and has a fine point.

There’s an old Persian poem that says something like « how foolish, someone knocks on the door and the heart opens it and lets them in. »

It too is short, simple and to the point.

Apart from the letter P and their respective points there is nothing to unite the pen and poem except time and place.

The time is now, the place is the desk where writing this occurs and where the red carpenter’s pen is ….(hang on, let it be taken from the bag where it was placed after the  picking up from the grass)….laying.

Wood on wood, as it should be; words on the page as they often are.

This desk is by the window of a small café on the second floor of a larger house, which is by all intent and purpose partly someone’s. but they are not alone; Valou is walking in circles trying to calm a small baby that is not hers and a man, who hasn’t shaven for several days, sits across the floor by the other window.

Even without these two people there would be no room for anyone other, as the thoughts of poem and pencil and all that they could symbolise are tumbling forth and taking all the light of this Mid-October day.

Now, Mid-October.

The time.

Maybe Time also to close the door – not of café but of heart.

The heart is open and someone has entered in who also stands outside on the threshold not entering.

Hesitating?

Who can tell?

 formerly published in The Archives.