a wind cutting fingers and noses and
torturing clothes hung out to dry,
dooms the earth-bound day to its smeared grey gloom,
and bowing our heads we make for the plane.
And then its lost, that spreading world of make belief
where human life became microbial,
seen only through a miscroscope.
It was whispered out of sight by the fringes of a universe that's made of thick and bumpy air which might go on for ever; is this the last we'll ever see - a sea in which we wrecked?
We're riding on a flying fish that's soared above its waves,
from depths into the light,
and what a light it is!
Brilliant, sparkling, like nothing seen on earth
and here the clouds -
below us now -
are billowed blankets laid across a million sleeping giants whose elbows, knees, backsides and toes form lumps and mounds and valleys in between.
This would be a place to live,
to have your house above the clouds
and sing and dance and laugh -
and falling all the while towards
the bitterness below.
No comments:
Post a Comment