Allison Grayhurst





In this sanctuary of cats, guitars and clay,

words descend from white clouds

bringing us breath through the window pane.


In this home of perfect love

and hardwood floors, strong angels

lean against every door, conversing

with playful ease amongst themselves.


In these rooms we curl together

until we feel an alternate, inseparable beating.

The ceilings are covered in cobwebs

like birthday string, and our bed

is a cavern for miraculous dreams.


In this happy corner, we have been given

a space in time to mould into our own,

where there is no protection and no facades,

where laughter rolls like tears do as soon

as the movement hits, and the day’s brightness

pours in at 10 am, telling us in this genesis season

that all is here and all is good.



Copyright © 2000 by Allison Grayhurst





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