As rounded as an egg

As rounded as an egg

I have a pencil sharpened, useful rubber at its end
just that and silence hissing thickly
swirled about the room
with intermittent buzz and flit flit flies
while I wait like a believer, sat in seance
or Friends in quiet circles, will the Spirit come?

But should I up and fetch a broom, the ironed change of sheets
a duster, begin to fettle
galvanize, prepare that room for guests
shake the crumbs and shift the dust
sparkle polish clean? 

Or strip myself instead of beds and brave the gasp of pool
length on length through liquid, languid
all thoughts subdued in the frog-slow stroke
while cirrus tuft and wisp
like old man's beard along the fence, and dandelion heads.

It is a white and misty day, the landscape's ill-defined
lines chalky smudge and blurred
while I wait like a believer, patient
as words on silent wings, more butterfly than bird
flap hither, thither, form, reform 
until, the poem from the pencil, landscape from the mist
emerges, clarified
as rounded as an egg. 

26th September 2014, Hounoux