Plato by the Fire – by Glenn Watt
Motion is everything,
high up on the west wall of the bedroom,
it reveals itself
in a long rectangle of light and shadow,
glint of sun
off a puddle of rainwater in the gutter
and then that third thing, the wind,
Like a window in the mind, the image
quivers, grows still, quivers,
If Plato were a closet poet,
he would have been sitting at a dying fire,
late at night,
the group grown silent before him,
their shadows flickering
on the wall of trees behind.
The rest, of course, is allegory.
But just this once, let’s leave him there
before his intellect turns:
there are shadows on the wall,
sometimes they quiver
as if something is passing through.