Poetry: The Blue Room | clivejames.com
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The Blue Room

I sit on a warm stone step in a doorway
to the Blue Room, the Morning Room.

There is much bee-noise and the noise
of birds: the acoustics are fine in the Blue Room.

Usually it may have rained overnight
in the Blue Room: this clear aquarium air.

In the Blue Room there is always one dove
— hidden here, hidden here —

and many honeyeaters,
up for hours, loony as tunes.

Today the Blue Room is available.
I sit among ants, between bees,

amid designer vegetation:
fine-detailed, non-repeating,

in the Blue Room, the Morning Room,
the wide Waiting Room.