Women at the Temple Door

The generational women dominate the dream space

Like actors behind a sky-high curtain that closes on time

And on the chronicles that filter down through the chatter,

Through the larceny of memory and images of Kent

Castles and Channel brine hanging from walls, courtesy

Of my mother who seemed to paint what she couldn’t say

And frame what she could barely see.

I seem assigned to the shadows, looking through veils,

Meadow dew and a clock tower in North London

That governed my days and my nights, and now governing

My compass, assuring that I would move in circles

Starting where I began before, always in the dark.

Now a young woman appears, pointing across space

To what might be a goddess in a green dress

Decorated with gold dust. The younger cries out

“The mother of my mother” and the two hug,

Closing gaps in time and I wake

To the pull of biography and the clock slowing down.