On Reflection

Here’s corporate, anonymised,

cellular bodies, occupied;

efficient use, compacted space -

in case of fire, can route be traced -

a brand where people lose themselves,

amongst the herd of common mark,

compartments, hutches beyond hatch,

enhanced battery, human farm?

To doorway frames, vertical bars,

like lines laid down in corridor;

but not, I fear, secure unit -

enlightened wing, HM detained -

but packed into their padded dwells,

where muffled cries are medicate,

or straitjackets fit the décor,

both out of sight and mindfulness?

The art’s a job lot gallery,

though stripped, suggestive, bearing stare;

one hopes not a dementia home,

devoid of guiding prompts retained,

where muscle memory reclaimed

though music, photos, synapse aimed;

see curvature - diffused glass light,

door number, knob, fob, pic bracket?

But shapes predominate for me,

that lineage, family tree,

horizons that need stretching out,

the vert diverted by degrees,

like Verdigris of copper belt -

thus history, philosophy,

and antique dealer’s chemistry -

are these some tutors’ offices?

Describing what we see, a truth,

discerning what we view, may be;

ekphrastic puzzles, further work,

another look as Nige suggests.

the riddle focusses the mind,

event horizon interplay,

as I refocus on the blurred,

and question where the point is stayed.

Presumptions, visions doomed, dismayed,

poetic explorations flayed,

for grand designs imposed, implied

soon bite the dust, my theme decayed.

I float the options - poets should -

but choice conclusion, readers’ charge,

though when re-reading challenge, task,

ambiguous in word, phrase, marks.

And so I query, ponder clues,

for much fake news, disseminate,

dissembling forces to distract -

but what is fiction, fact, redact?

In boyhood trained to honest, trust,

so little knew, post-war corrupt -

those boys in blue, the Lodge, the Krays -

no clue, abuse, parents naïve.

Incongruent geometry,

sum math’s dept, university;

that is conclusive proof for me,

the theory tested, Q.E.D.

But now I’m certain. Trompe l’oeil;

reflective glass, a cul-de-sac,

until that carpet couldn’t lie,

unless lens laid a foot away.