The following poem is a villanelle written for inclusion in The Tesserae, the long poem I wrote in 2020 during the UK lockdowns and the Covid-19 pandemic. It originally appeared at the beginning of ‘Meditations of the Sphinx’, the third part of the poem.

You walk the line, I work the art.
All day the heat is effortless.
The language sits us far apart.

No tenderer hand could tend your part
but death possesses only force.
The line you walk. You work the art.

To last this breath not breathe one’s last
this thing must run its course of course:
the language holds apart, apart.

We meet not meet, no end to start
from which to base our happiness:
the line the line no work of art.

Contingency is learnt by heart.
The glimpse of words was all there was.
The work of language falls apart:

the words you learn are off the chart.
You walk to work. We try the art
which is already lost, because
the language sets so near apart.

This poem © Oliver Tearle 2020. From The Tesserae (Newtnext Press).