The invisible house cannot be seen, but it is not hidden.
Through tiny, obscure facets of the mind prism —
That same prism that comes in two parts, and that Escher knew,
As did the German priest who wrote him of it.
From an island in a Lake in the rain,
And through midnight lauda-numbed talk of galvanism
And of statues that lay asleep, deep in the marble coffin blocks of Canova.
Or at Lissadell, again in rain,
North western, cold and dark, with the golden flames, pushing, push-pushing against the night.
And that 'wyrd' night that lay all about — just a fabric tear in the static electricity of sleep.
music by David Bickley & Declan Young