THE ROOF

The roof of the opposite house is dear to me:
I feel some promise in the meeting of roof-line and sky,
The quiver, the intuition of a far country.

Whatever it is that broods where the line meets the clouds
                                            or the lifting blue,

Not longing . . . not memory . . .
A wild benevolence of light and time,
Nothing to do with the crossing cables or the stump chimney-pots,
Speaking to me.

Often a pigeon will sit all night on the roof,
Resting between journeys he never planned:
I wake and think about him-the small shape
Harboured in that odd certainty, which comforts me also,
I cannot give it a name
Of reassurance, reminder. 'You were here once.
This is how it will be.'

How what will be? And where is 'here'?
...