Resolution

What now of your anger
that you kindled in the windowless room
and carried with you like a hot coal through crowded streets,
fanned all the while by self-hurting words?
It was already half gone
when you reached the coolness of the wood,
set foot amongst leaves,
where nothing returns as you speak,
no reply to feed from nor follow,
where you scarce know where best
to rest your gaze
there being no intent
hidden in mossy limb or intricate stem,
each one like the next,
unplanned and empty of desire,
looking then for other words to document
the softness of ground, the moistness of the air.

What now as you stand
on the summit of the little hill,
not alone but with me,
who likes you no more or less
than when you shut yourself in an angry room?
What else but words that turn to sky,
sinking no longer against a wall
or banging in anger the window pane
quieter as they pass away
and still attended, gone.



Colin