Hair

Moving around this empty house

sometimes a glint of sunlight, early

one morning or in late afternoon

before the sun sets finally behind

the mountain, scrapes a diagonal.

Pulls a sharp line of light across a

chair, the carpet or the edge of a dull

mirror. Occasionally, once or twice a

day sometimes (if I’m lucky and the

gods are with me) this streak of

sunlight will illuminate a long golden

hair. I will recognise it immediately

as one of yours; long and unique

in its colour, it will embellish any

mundanity, anything earthly in the

path of the sun-streak’s movement.

I pick up the hair, it moves on any

wisp of breeze or breath in the room

and I hold it between gentle finger-

tips as if I am holding you, ever so

lightly before dipping my lips to

kiss you. Discarding the fine line

of a hair, the memory of you – the

idea of it becoming part of the room –

sinks into my skin; the soul of the house.