Myopia (A Tentative Title for a Tentative Poem)

Sixteen years of darkness:

Of blurred shapes, smudged and grey.

Gentle and gradual, a rising tide;

Slowly sinking into shadow.

I was engulfed by it,

Tender as a kiss.

Suddenly, with the discovery

Of lensis ocularis,

My world snaps back.

Like a rubber band or a heartstring,

Stretched to the breaking point

And then let go.

The world in focus;

Every leaf edged sharp and green.

But now, after so many years

Accustomed – re-accustomed – to clarity,

The charcoal has returned.

The blur of a hand passed over ink.

I’m near-sighted yet again.

Myopic.

I cannot see a thing.

Where are my glasses?

You must have brought them with you when you left.

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