“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.
An intriguing narrative, the light is brightest and most defining when it dives through shadow. Chiaroscuro is an excellent and apt tag for this write, Vermeer and Caravaggio in words. Superb piece much enjoyed!
Clay