Ten o’clock and all’s well,
at least as well
as can be expected.

I recline
in the half-light
of the lace curtains

I lie long,
fitting my spine,
against the line
of the armchair
listening to the bird song
swooping and scooping
in tender bubbles of sound.

I move my eyes
and laze there,
unwilling to turn around,
and range the room.

Objects vanish and loom
full fish-eye,
paintings and photographs,
carved wood and books.

I half close my eye
and look out
through the film
around my gaze
in lieu of sight.

Awareness abates
and I retreat
from reality,
from anxiety,
from the pleasure,
and the refined pain
that fills my leisure,
and I search for beauty,
whatever that may be.

Dad Painted by Mum