Moment

Within this room on this bright empty day
There is no knowledge and no act to stir
The sprawled emotions from the leather chair
That stands before a table full of paper.

My pen moves idly on a stainless waste
Impelled by hopes as vague as the white clouds
Drifting upon this sky of faintest blue—
The shades of words that withered in the brain.

Chill sunlight shines on my disordered desk
From far away there sound dull hammer blows,
A girl is walking, quickly, down the street
Barbaric colours burn upon her dress.

Hubert Witheford