11. White for Sylvia

Enclosed in harder light
it holds an atmosphere,
a stillness as tangible as stone
as much to do with silence as with light,
thickening under walls
a soft light
the gentle fading over surfaces that blend
from grey to grey,
a dwell in motion at the gentle turning of the day.
Late summer sunlight is falling
on the soft grey of the tower
on the rounds, the empty recess of the clock
and pillars that fenced off the aisles.

At the centre
framed in the slick arch of a door
a splash of red,
is bordered by a broken line of white
where begonias have been planted in a crumbling trough.

Faces and fingers,
the minutes and the hours, have slipped away
unnecessary now
that all the talking has been done.