POEMS/
Time Travel
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JERUSALEM, ANNE SHIVAS

Time Travel
​
I have come back:
squeak of cast iron gate,
pass post box beneath
a lime tree arch
where my eyes lift,
follow the bike ramp
to the side of steps— 
my shoulders, hands know
the push and grip of steep ascent.
A sweep of stone wings,
an open river of domestic rock,
leads to yellow door, mosaic floor;
a flood of blackbird song
in summer’s late light.
A girl in tennis white
I enter what was once home
to pick up glasses
I’ll not need until
years from now,
and take a thick book— 
Mandela's song,
years before he writes
or I discover
the rough blue walls,
of my Calvinist prison,
or find the need
to sing freedom’s song,
kin-song; find
the right tone
to break walls.