The Mystique

A still red pool of water is a pond
I can see in the sunset,
And the dark feathers of trees
Shroud it like a roosting bird.

Closer and closer it draws me,
Tighter and stronger the bonds
That tug me by the arm
As the sleeve of a boy’s shirt.

Fear and exhilaration drumming
In my ears and chest
I take clumsy steps forward
To the heart of the lake.

And suddenly a woman screams
Like a Shakespearean witch,
The strands of hoarse voices
Breaking out like ripples
Over a quiet lake; and echo
Once, twice, thrice and again
Until it’s in my head and in the forest
And it reverberates everywhere.

But the lake is still as a child
That knows more than she says.
That’s when I break into a run.

Who knows if I lived or died.

There’s Music along the Way

You’re in a white shadowless cellar

And you talk to the ghost

Reflections you see of yourself

On the four walls of your cellar.

Oh, but now you’re in a pinstriped suit
And a slated boardroom with
Pale faced grims to your right and left
With painted lips soundlessly speaking.
And now it’s evening and the lights
Are bright and cold in the tube
And you stand melancholy as you
Watch it pass you by; you got late.
A dim crowded rented block is now
Your home, but when did this happen?
All you have are doughnuts and choc-bars;
Then you throw up on white ceramic.
Oh, and you spend your days
In the quiet of cigarette smoke
And maybe a statutory sniff of pot;
But you don’t drink, that makes you whorish.
Now, again, it’s the clean white cell
And you hear stray strums off a browning
Guitar and an accompanying cello
And your lips crackle as you finally smile.