A poem by TS Eliot Prize-winner Sinéad Morrissey.
Illustration by Andre Bergamin
Among the flasks and vases –
Song to Ming dynasties –
the stillest of still things:
five “plain domestic bowls
from circa 1300”.
Old capital, becalmed on the edge
of a freshwater marsh – lifeblood –
despite the breeze. It drinks mountains,
laments its poor anchorage. Leconte
Because there is a word we must not say,
of course we hear it everywhere.
The dog left in a cold yard sings it.
Unanswered phones in locked houses