"waking lights"
The room sits in its late-hour weight,
charcoal settling where the boards dip.
A latch sticks; the cold has worked at it
through weeks of short days.
The radio mutters through the same reports.
Outside, the yard is a sheet of dull metal,
the shed roof taking the last scraps of light
without giving anything back.
Vermeer knew this hour -
how a wall keeps its colour
until a single line of brightness
slips across it from nowhere expected.
A jug on the sill brightens by degrees.
Dust shifts.
The room changes shape
light, remembers waking.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 20th, 2026 05:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
- In collections: 2026, reworked prior.
Offline)
Comments2
Most poetic my friend this poem is a time exposure that moves from line to line with some wonderful poetic lines "The room sits in its late-hour weight," here the burden is transferred to the hour and room. "the shed roof taking the last scraps of light" it is as if the weight of the light is measured. "light, remembers waking." Light itself personified. The inanimate awakens in this picture painted in poetic lines. A fave
So glad this poem found a home in its reading. A real privilege, Soren, thank you🙏🏻🕊️
A most wonderful work Cryptic and a pleasure to read
great write, time slowly moving
Thanks my dear friend 🙏🏻🕊️
most welcome
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