Incident at a Holiday Cottage

At Polruan, Cornwall, September 1984
A crystal talon curves from the stem at my feet;
through its base, linoleum whirls, red and ochre.
Further into the room, glass mosaics the carpet,
slivers lie beneath bookshelves, chairs,
as if flung from a great height.
Afternoon bathes each cutting edge in light.
I brush particles, ice-shapes, together
and they gleam among dust, crumbs, lint.
I cannot imagine them ever
recomposing a wineglass. Each fragment
is a jigsaw piece, jagged and bright,
holding countless transparent others.
I open the window, put my hands out
into the cold air that covers
all I see — two villages held apart
by an estuary. Autumn skies mediate
coral and amber to the eye through water-
grey cloud. As if snow had fallen from that
dome, the air is stripped, pure. The river,
broken by sea-bound ships, stays whole, intact.