It comes with the changing light,
or steps out from the shadows
creeping across whitewashed walls
like the hands of a clock.
Or it falls with the weight of sky
tilting the earth awkwardly -
a ship caught side on by the wave.
It is offered by a familiarity
in a stranger’s face,
and the smell of the fields.
It calls from the radio,
and rides on the sounds of the street
drifting through an open door.
It lives in the dead words,
hap’penny, radiogram, rag and bone,
and the live words,
hashtag, selfie, alcopop,
From nothing it may fold
itself around you,
turning the sewing of a button,
or the drying of a plate,
into a sermon.
And always, in the half light
it briefly lifts the heavy curtain
to show ourselves for what we are,
the world for what it is,
and our true place in it.