Bedroom

This is where we sleep, the dusk, the range
of unexciting furniture, all dreams
of that first meadow long forgotten. Drought

has overcome all growth, has driven out
all might-have-beens. There's just the barren field,
the dusty track across the hill – no more

the mirrored mountain. Sizes change with time;
on former glassy streams the duckweed thrives,
excluding all reflections. Where my feet

once lightly walked, for long the careless winds
have been sole masters. Reddish leaves and sand
come rustling past and I have turned my eyes

away. As it won't do to sit and watch
the testy hours creep, I will ignore
the view, the room. It's simply where we sleep.