OCULAR.

A flashing amber pattern

Shatters his sleep

Once a week;

Ripped from the synchronised strip lights

Of the refuse collector’s van

In the back lane;

Crashing through the

Tenuous flesh of his curtains

Into the top corner above his bed.

And he lets me know that the dust-men-bin

Are here and have waked him up,

As he sits in the window to see them at their work.

And he sees his world

For the first time,

And all is right;

Heaven’s valance frames the day’s palette

And its lanterns hang in accord

With the morning;

Stone and mortar

Hold the heavy edges steady

Around the dark and cracked tarmac base

Where, built upon by the finest brush strokes,

Are swept crevices that collect

The best of his evening’s dreams in shades of day.