This room with magnolia walls
will be your shrine at the base of the temple.
This chair, whose colour you won’t remember,
your rock of prophecy. The view
not a tumult of olive trees, but a dusty strip
of municipal sky through two high windows.
On the occasional table
a box of tissues for the pot-bound
fig weeping in the corner. Ask yourself
why only now you taste its fruit,
or trace the roots of the knotted tree
so long your rack?
Time to cast memories like runes,
stony hearts and shards of sea glass,
edges blunted by the tumbling of years,
to learn the lithomancer’s craft,
master the ways in which a seer
foretells the past.
© Deborah Harvey 2011
'Deborah Harvey's poems are raw and true. She is the real thing.' Hugo Williams
My poetry collection, 'Communion', is published by Indigo Dreams and available from them, or Amazon, W H Smith and so on. Or if you want a signed copy, email firstname.lastname@example.org for details. This poem isn't in it, but you can read some of the ones that are here.