Number 18 by Bob Woodroofe

The hushed quiet of the house of the weaver
drifts in time along Folgate street
deep in the heart of Spittalfields

harbours the fugitives fled from France
their silk webs interwoven
span the years from cellar to roof

a drama in still life the fitting of objects
their collective presence
signpost the spirit of those times

contours of the past
mood spells of an age
bathed in English light

step through the frame
close your eyes so you can see
enter before it fades

into the room take three steps back,
feel the shape of the house’s spirit
looking inside out

apply your hands to the door
crack open at the centre
gently very gently push back both sides

to find the space between