Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

Landing light

A roundel

Under the door the glow is peeking,

feeling its way across the floor.

From the lamp on the landing it’s spilling, seeping

under the door,

sending delicate tendrils far,

invading the inky darkness, keeping

at bay the frights night has in store.

Whether I’m lying awake or sleeping

or floating half in half out, I’m sure

it’ll last forever, the light that’s leaking

under the door.