Rupert Loydell


He saw the world as a series of vertical marks,
isolated in the landscape:
trees, streetlamps, drain pipes, distant figures;
reference points that provided a way of moving
through the world.

Under this tree he'd stood and sheltered in the rain
during a summer storm. After a few minutes he'd
run for home, arriving at the front door with his shirt
stuck to him, his trousers and shoes dripping,
leaving damp footprints along the hallway floor.

Often, he left a trail of invisible hieroglyphs in the street
as he avoided treading on the cracks and dodged
fallen leaves, notating his journey through the sidestreets.

Under the picture glass a dot or two of white dust
on the black oil paint, trapped in the frame.
A distraction to the eye.

Copyright © Poets of London