Matías Serra Bradford
A Studio in Chiswick
There's a curious room
Lined by sympathetic inks and jars
Where small volumes are being knitted together.
Cards dealt on the trestle table
A yellow to rest on or dress a mood with
Handed in through the window.
A very curious process
Rules what child
From Easter Island to the Isle of Sark
Shall get the next little book
With a tail attached.
Hogarth's a neighbour and ravens lecture
On the after-life
Four times a day
Like schoolgirls during break.
Expect great things
From the draughtsman
Who does not stare
At his own hands.
Dog-earing Hiroshige - a fireman's sun -
A son's light
Of a myriad fingerprints and predilections.
A pupil looks at the small water
Like an addict,
Does not mind
About the future, always cries
Present at a moment's notice
Right there about to leap
Into the slumber of an afternoon lesson,
No pentimento in a small hand, lines timed to a second
Never look back over the shoulder.
Thought it was Kyoto what
With the streets lined in bloom.
At the Stationer's
The owner's granddaughter
Photocopies her hand
And shows it to him while spying on
The dry cakes chosen by visitors.
Minutes later almost
The same glimpse
In the eyes of a stone goddess
At the entrance to a public building
Holding a letter
Somebody left between her frozen hands.
An old pencil bitten long
Ago, while swallowing
Peanuts as restless as elephants
Molten gold hidden in hidden mouths.
Working after hours for a friend:
A turning of lights
Pinocchio's shaven chin
Or an I Ching ideogram:
If you keep quiet