Living in a stained glass house,
All the windows smokey
With litter of cobwebs,
The shadows of people walking
Outside in drear February light,
Their minds eyes locked on unique dream worlds,
Strange personalized realities.
Built of painted glass,
No bricks - no steel - no concrete cladding,
My private dream is this weird brittle house,
My coop on hens legs - my star burst chapel -
My hermitage - my happy space - my winter sanctuary -
My Amiens Cathedral in perfect miniature,
My mendicants cave.
This is my fear free zone - my Tent of Dreaming,
My sphere of hope - of care - of loving,
Where tax demands are burnt and shredded,
Where Rent Collectors, who are really spies,
Their interest rates as tall as steeples,
Are left to soak in the rain outside,
Outside on that offshore Isle of spectres
Once known as holy Albion,
I do not live there anymore;
I have not moved house but have bolted the door.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 6th.- 7th. - 8th. 2023.
During the passed week I have been suffering from a bout of influenza. The fever wonderfully ratchets up my insecurities.
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