Somewhere Over England

Open,
white sedan, circled
by standing stones-
way out,
an ashen roadhouse
resides alone- nearby
other riders are waiting,
staring at the sun
through some tunnel-
see, it terminates.
Lightness, and the lunacy
of luminosity, forces
one to squint.


Skin meets a rising breeze,
capturing heat’s thick hide-
tongues thirsty,
for a lick of fire
could be redder,
adjust your visors
and squint-
watch reflections fly
with winged shoes,
crashing one into the other-
split seconds
are the lifespan
of such dense debris.


Carrier pigeons hobble
in fields of airless space
because it’s all around,
coaxing a cell of black clouds
to bear rain.
At the height of the fury,
swinging wires twist
and swine purses,
spun from pearls, empty
their regrets- they hurt
the way hammer blows
inflict pain.


Relief lies past
the bridge of rainbows,
home to Thor- one finds him
speaking to the blind stranger,
tapping a cane along
the Great Hall-
his fingertips feel
heat emanating
from a white hearth,
a tickling presence-
the ground rumbles.

Six passing caravans
stripped down
to their rickety
canvasless frames,
heaving with gifts,
led by a Moor
who has come to visit-
he is hungry for epiphany
now that the rusks
and sugar are gone.

The hosts accommodate:
‘Here is an old remedy,
to patch the holes
revealing the heavens’ glare-
glue on
brown paper,
then set a table
with brass and tureen-
serve pudding
with rice vinegar,
and be generous'.

Seen from our lowly throne,
the mold hasn't quite set,
so the raisins
seem to behave
like erratic electrons,
which appears to be
the meaning of it all.


Copyright 2008 Celosongs Ltd.