Tuesday, 23 August 2011


Hers was an infinate haze,
drunk pastel skies, her heaven
two floors up

She thought of the ants,
too black to be real,
too dark to be anything but

What must it be like to work and to carry
yet still be shunted along?

That long, narrow groove,
such fleeting appeal -

patchwork blooms on a lover's quilt,
rainbow bright on childlight days
when through open windows she'd see

strangers stopping to check their watch
look up and smile -

It didn't happen enough.

Too many man-made ties,
most in the closest,
abandoned, forgotten
some hanging from rails...

Oh for the feel of cotton
candy-cloud surrounds in their sun-set haze...

their drunken heaven...

that solitary breath before death.

Two floors up, she recalled
talk of clarity from those entombed.

It was there in the threads on their quilts
on beds neatly made every day
and out through their windows on to the world
where people spent time checking clocks
and rainbow skies were for pre-school,
grey by five.

Oh yes it was clear,
clear enough in her infinate haze
that this was a heaven few could reach
if only two floors up.

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