in between the hours of our waiting
life grows like Witchgrass
through cracks in concrete
twirling and running
brown locks floating
a girl bright in pink stockings
arms flailing
singing a new day
anchors away way
all frowns gone
melted honey
death on each breath
smooth and free
tiny boat she
ripples not waves
deep blue sea
specks of dust
mottled green
flaking rust
gentle eddies
spontaneous flight
caught in the wind
bright blossom
blowing here
sunlit cartwheels
unschooled in fear
now a pigeon
or crow or some unnamed bird
no reason
just an absurd
‘why the hell not?’
alights on a street lamp
which is still on
a not quite open
rebell-i-on
against
who knows what?
legs statuesque
and crossed
two ladies neatly dressed…
only eyes move
mesmerised by tiny shiny screens
stunted followers
who should have been
flowers
they sought sun but found
artificial light
fingers tenderly stroking
smooth digital keys
love flickers darkling night
strange intimacies
crusty dry marks
white and red
stain my clothes
are they
plague
vague dead
lonely roses
pockets full of posies
or merely
the residue of
autoerotic excess?
just a mess
someone should have got rid
of years ago
but no body did
my apologies I am going to sneeze
a-a-a-atichoo (reader acts as if hands covered in snot which they then proceed to wipe off on their clothing)
I’m so sorry
God bless me!
at last the thing we all die to hear
the bells of St Paul’s ring loud and clear
like a gateway to hell, the doors open wide
and
reluctant
the girl waves goodbye to the light
the women silence mobile devices
nameless birds take shrieking flight
and I hesitate
to assume my place within the stream
merrily merrily
like a dream
hurry hurrying to escape the sun
putting an end to childish play
to gaze at
walls in Plato’s cave instead
sad bags checked
numbered and locked away
empty
all of us already dead
linger here though with me please a bit longer
in the sun
ask what happens
after the last song is sung
fresh green leaves unseen
whisper to no one in the breeze
new birds sing
test unused wings
dive headlong through dark seas of cloud that briefly obscure the light
old world’s sadness at the
inevitable loss
of this strange assemblage of
bone and consciousness
and as I join the queue
another light dodger
grumpy old codger
‘if it’s good as over why bother…?’
I see a crane
its steel arm stretching higher
still building
is it all in vain? or
does our collective suicide
always coincide with the birth of a world
so bold and new and beautiful that
it shames us into oblivion
with its all embracing love?
