No Argus. Just Words.. Poem by Richard Blanch

I would I could meet the outline on the stair
Which wanders there at night.
Just out of sight. Needles drift in the light
From a bare electric bulb. Colourless air stands upright,
Trembles a little through broken glass,
Tries to thicken, to contract and fill the form
When I flick the switch to find the dark
Is passing. Basins of cold water stand wan
In the grey dawn. Ready to pour.
There is no lark.

I would the wind were strong, were gold, could bite..
It is relentless white, ringing fading moons about
Like leaden saucepans, unwashed bowls.
Old things are with me, scents of during
Of through, of past. Never of beyond..Smells that recur
Fail to stir. Ease is dull:
Dully fond.

Yellow might blaze the shape into sight.
But yellow comes pallid too, like things said
Only in the head: a head too full.
Brown is a much better colour, I suppose-
Blistering brown now, alive, moving, a wood, thriving.
But there is winter -out there? -In here?
Cold, leafless, bare.
Nothing grows. Or glows.

Those are just nouns and adjectives. They invite
Me in, then scribble the world unliving..Faith gives
Way. Doubt slides over the carpet.Was there ever
Rose, or Red?
The shape remains an outline.
Is it dead?